Blow The Man Down
by jane0904
Summary: A new multi-part story, set second season just before Tick, Tick, Tick/Boom!. Dead bodies, sunken treasure, and old friends combine to make Castle and Beckett's life interesting. NOW COMPLETE but you never know - there might be more!
1. Chapter 1

New York, New York ... so good they named it twice. The Big Apple. Home to some of the most staggering buildings in the world, as well as some of its greatest tragedies. And here, in the old garment district, in a factory where once rows of young women sitting at industrial sewing machines turned out plaid shirts to clothe a million people, was the body.

A shaft of early morning sunlight moved slowly across the floor, illuminating the corpse as if on the stage, only he wasn't going to get up and take a bow. His limbs were contorted, twisted, his eyes wide open, staring at nothing. All around him the dust was churned up, disturbed by his death throes. He had not died well.

The workman standing in the doorway turned quickly away, pulling his cellphone from his pocket and dialling 911, while his colleague used his to take photographs of the corpse.

---

New York, New York, so good they named it twice. The Big Apple. Home to some of the most staggering buildings in the world ... and Richard Castle was of the opinion that this one in particular was one of the most staggering. Ever.

He leaned back on the stone bench (part of an exhibit, but nobody had told him he had to move) and looked up. There was something about the Guggenheim Museum that had always appealed to him, a symmetry that satisfied something in his soul. Maybe it was the way it seemed to reach up to heaven, visible through the glass ceiling, or perhaps it was merely the chutzpah of the man who insisted it be this way, and no other.

"Penny for them."

Rick refocused in front of him and smiled at his daughter, her trademark red hair caught up in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. "Not worth it," he said, sitting straighter.

"I thought every word that fell from your brain was worth its weight in gold," Alexis said, dropping onto the bench next to him. "At least, that's what Paula says."

"If she could get her ten percent of my thoughts, she would," Rick admitted somewhat ruefully of his book agent. "As it is, so far, they're still my own."

She smiled. "So what were you thinking?"

"About how beautiful this place is."

Alexis looked up. "It is. But better than the Chrysler Building?" she asked, knowing he could wax lyrical about the architecture of New York for hours if left unmolested.

"Not better. Different." He grinned, this time reigning in his natural tendency to pass on useless information. "And perfect for nefarious happenings."

"Nefarious?"

"Maybe I should have Nikki Heat chase one of the suspects up to the top floor. Then, just as he's about to be caught, he slips, tumbles, falls to a messy and permanent death." His eyes followed the phantom victim, flinching as it hit the ground.

"Death usually is permanent," Alexis pointed out.

"Unless you're Stephen King."

"Granted. But didn't you do that in _The Dying of the Light_?"

"Running the risk of repeating myself, you mean?"

"Or plagiarising."

"Can one plagiarise oneself?" he mused, half closing his eyes. Then he grinned. "Not sure, but it sounds sexy. And just a little bit painful."

She punched him on the arm. "Dad, can you drag your mind out of the gutter for just a while?"

"Well, sweetheart, I'll try, but I can't promise anything."

Alexis sighed theatrically. "I suppose I'd better take what I can get. Besides, while we're here, there's an exhibition of sixteenth century engravings I want to see." She took hold of his hand and stood up, dragging him to his feet with her.

"Alexis ..."

"You said this was our day," she said meaningfully, poking him in the chest with her forefinger. "_You _said we could do whatever I wanted."

He rubbed at the spot. "I know. And we are. But I was thinking more of maybe that new paintballing place in Queens, or maybe the movies ..."

"Dad, the last time we went to see a film you fell asleep five minutes in."

"I didn't!" At his daughter's look, though, he amended it to, "Okay, maybe I did. But I'd been up late for a week trying to solve that homicide with Beckett."

"Hmmn." She debated not letting him off the hook that easily, but he was making that half smiling, half pleading look again. "I suppose we could. But I still want to see the engravings first."

Rick held out his arm. "Your wish, my lady, is my command."

She looped her hand over. "And you should have invited her to come with us."

"Who, Kate?" Rick scratched his ear. "I don't know if museums are her thing."

"If you don't ask, you won't find out. Anyway, I'm sure they are."

They strolled towards the circular ramp. "Maybe. She's certainly well read. All of my works, for a start."

Alexis chuckled at her father's apparent self-absorption, something he'd taken pains to cultivate over the years. "Next time, then."

"Next time," he promised, smiling at her. "So, the engravings, then ... lunch?"

"Dad, it's not even eleven yet."

"Late breakfast, then."

"You had toast and cereal."

"Which I only got to eat half of because you wanted to get going."

"You overslept."

"I'm hungry."

Alexis sighed. "Fine. Engravings, then food, then we –" She stopped as music began to play from inside her father's jacket. "Dad, I thought you turned that off?"

"So did I." Rick pulled his cellphone from his pocket and stared at the caller display. He smiled. "It's Maggie." Ignoring the looks from the other visitors to the museum, he pressed receive. "Mags. How are you?"

"_Tired."_ Maggie Maguire, known to her many readers as A J Maguire, sounded like she was about to collapse.

"You okay?"

"_No. Yes."_ She sighed_. "I'm fine, Rick, just ... I just got off the plane, and I'm exhausted."_

"Plane? Where are you?"

"_New York."_

"You're here?" Rick looked at Alexis, whose face lit up.

"Maggie's here?" she echoed.

"Seems like." He spoke into the phone again. "How come you didn't let me know you were arriving?"

"_It's all complicated and last minute. Some idiot's accusing me of plagiarising his novel, and my agents want a face to face meeting, and ... Rick, can I drop my gear at your place?"_

Odd how little coincidences could happen, he thought to himself. There they were, just talking about plagiarising, and here was Maggie … "Of course you can. I'm not home, but just ask Eduardo to let you in. Your old room's ready."

"_No, I'll find a hotel. I just need to –"_

"No. Mags, don't be crazy. You're staying with us."

"_You know what happened last time ..."_

"That wasn't my fault. Or yours, for that matter." He was referring to the affair with Petra Bentley, but didn't let her answer. "So that's settled. And don't worry – when I get home later we can discuss strategies."

"_You know, I'm too tired to argue."_ Still, she sounded relieved.

"When's your meeting?"

"_4.00 pm."_

"Then try and grab a couple of hours sleep. We'll be back later."

"_Thanks, Rick."_ Now the relief was obvious.

"Hey, what are friends for?" He hung up and looked at Alexis. "Seems like we're having a house guest for a few days."

"Great!" She bounced a little. She'd always loved Maggie, having known her all her life, partly because the author was a wonderful woman, and partly because she always seemed to bring out the best in her father. "Maybe we should –"

Rick's cellphone rang again, and this time one of the custodians glared at him. He held up a finger to indicate he'd only be a second, then answered. "Beckett."

"_We've got a body."_

He couldn't help the tilt to his lips. Detective Kate Beckett had never been one for small talk, and that didn't seem likely to change. "It's Saturday."

She paused for perhaps a microsecond. _"So?"_

"Why are you working? Aren't you supposed to have the day off today?" Ah, maybe he shouldn't have let on he kept track of her comings and goings.

Still, this time she didn't react. "_We've got people off with the 'flu so I said I'd cover."_

Feeling a slight tickle in his own throat, Rick cleared it quietly. "And you've caught a murder?"

"_A body,"_ she corrected him. _"We don't know how he died yet."_

Rick looked at his daughter. "I'm sort of in the middle of something right now ..."

There was a silence for maybe ten seconds, then Kate said, her voice somehow managing to convey the expression he just knew was on her face, _"Well, I'd hate to interrupt a date with something as mundane as a dead body –"_

"I'm with Alexis. We're at the Guggenheim." He couldn't help the smirk. "Why, are you jealous?"

"_About you going to a museum?"_

"That I might have been on a date."

"_Castle ..."_

Alexis was touching his arm. "Dad, it's okay," she said quietly. "If you need to go, I can head home, make things ready for Maggie."

He covered the mouthpiece to the phone. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. And we can do this another day."

He smiled at her. "What did I do right to be blessed with a daughter like you?"

"Not sure. Perhaps it was a mistake."

"Probably." He spoke into the phone again. "Where are you?"

"_Why? I thought you were busy."_

"For a dead body?" The smile widened into a full-blown, Castle-patented grin. "Never."

---

He sneezed.

"Gesundheit," Kate said absently.

"Thanks." He felt around his pockets for a handkerchief but came up empty. He sneezed again.

"If you're going to contaminate my crime scene, you can wait in the car," Lanie threatened, down on her heels next to the body.

"Do I get the window open a little?" he countered.

"Only if I get to take you to the vet after."

"Ouch." Rick could feel a third sneeze about to erupt and he tried to stop it, only that just made it worse, turning it inward and threatening to erupt from other orifices.

"Oh, here." Kate handed him a Kleenex.

"Thanks." He blew his nose.

Kate favoured him with one of her disapproving looks, then continued slowly forwards.

"Don't worry, bro," Ryan said, waving his hand with his own tissue in it. "You're not the only one. It's the dust."

Rick looked around. Ryan was right, although whether dust was quite the proper word for something that lay an inch thick in places was debatable.

"So what do we have?" Kate asked, all business.

"Dead body is a John Doe," Lanie said, making notes on her pad as she spoke. "No wallet, no jewellery, no cash."

"A mugging?"

"It's possible. But there's no external signs of trauma, no stab or gunshots wounds ..."

"Are you saying this was natural causes?" Kate indicated the position of the body, limbs twisted.

"No. Just that I don't know what killed him yet."

"It looks like poison," Rick commented, holding his nose so the dust couldn't get up it. "There are some alkaloids that have this sort of effect. Painful, too."

"I'll be testing for them." Lanie leaned forward. "One odd thing, though." She used the tip of her pen to lift the body's sweater. "His underwear is damp."

Kate's eyebrow raised. "Damp."

Rick lifted his head. "You mean he –"

"No, I don't," Lanie interrupted him. "There's no smell, and whatever it was had no colour either. I'll have to wait until I get him back to my table to try and make sense of it."

"Only one set of footprints," Ryan commented, sounding more than a little bunged up.

"His," Esposito added, looking up from his position by the corpse's feet. He pointed down to the distinctive trainers on the corpse's feet. "The design on the sole's identical."

"It looks like a fight," Rick said. "The dust's all disturbed."

"He probably did it himself," Lanie said, standing up and signalling to her ME colleagues that they could remove the body. "CSU have taken a whole slew of photos, but I doubt they'll be able to see much more than we can."

"So no ID, no visible wounds …" Kate shook her head. "I guess it's up to you."

"It usually is. I'll get anything to you as soon as I can."

"Thanks."

Lanie glared at Rick. "Are you just going to stand there?"

"Oh. Sorry." He got out of her way then turned to Kate. "Have I done something to upset her?" he stage-whispered.

"Over and above being you?"

"Yes."

"Not that I'm aware of. Perhaps she had a late night."

"You weren't out together?" He let his mouth curve. "On the town? Painting it red?"

"No. I already had a date."

Now he was intrigued. "Ooh, the firefighter again? Tall, dark and loathsome?"

Kate strode out, heading back to her car. "No."

"A new man? Or – dare I suggest it – a new woman?"

She glared at him over her shoulder. "As it happens, it was a date with a hot bath and a good book."

"I thought you'd finished _Heat Wave_."

"I do read other things."

"Really? Like what?"

"Aren't I allowed some secrets?"

"No."

The bickering continued as they left the building, leaving Esposito smiling, and Ryan sneezing yet again.


	2. Chapter 2

Rick was bored. They might have a dead body, but with no identification, no idea of cause of death and no suspects, there was very little he could do. Apart from annoy Kate, of course.

But even that wasn't happening. Kate was taking the opportunity to catch up on some paperwork while waiting for Ryan to come up with something from his trawl through the missing persons files, while Esposito was completing his neighbourhood canvas. She was effectively ignoring him, no matter what he said or did.

In fact, Rick was so bored he was on the verge of going home and annoying Maggie instead, except one glance at the clock told him she'd be at her meeting right now, probably telling whoever would listen exactly what she thought of them. Tiredness, plus irritation and Maggie's occasional natural pig-headedness was not a combination to be taken lightly. And being accused of plagiarism wasn't going to improve matters.

Plagiarism. Honestly. What kind of idiot would accuse Maggie of that? Her novels were so carefully worked out, so meticulous in their research ... of course they were original. Oh, there'd be the odd details that might be similar to something someone else somewhere had written, but it was pretty much in the realms of a hundred monkeys on a hundred typewriters eventually writing Hamlet, or something like that. There were only a finite number of stories in the world, and in the realm of crime there were bound to be similarities here and there.

For one thing there were only a certain number of ways to kill someone – shooting, stabbing, poison, suffocation, maybe a couple more, and a limited pool of suspects – husband, wife, lover, child, business partner, fan, even someone totally unknown to the victim. No, the skill came in the combination of who, what, when, where, how and why. And although Maggie may have been inspired, even influenced by other writers, she'd never steal. So it all had to be about money. Filthy lucre. Thirty pieces of ...

Kate's voice brought him back.

"You're very quiet."

He looked at her, but she was still studying the file in front of her. "Am I?"

"Yes."

"Is that so unusual?"

"Pretty much. I'll have to make a note of it in my diary."

He sat up. "You keep a diary? Can I read it?"

She threw him a glare. "No."

"To the keeping or the reading?"

"Either. Both."

He scrutinised her closely, his eyes narrowed. "Nope. I don't think you do. Not now. But I bet you did when you were young."

"Really." She sat back, tapping her pen on her bottom lip.

"Mmn." He smiled. "Alexis does."

"Has _she_ let you read hers?"

"Yes."

"Really."

It was the tone in the second 'really' that somehow had him ... thinking. "What?"

"Oh, nothing."

"No. It's not. It's definitely something. What?"

"She let you read her diary."

"Yes."

"I imagine it was pretty vanilla."

"Snow's darker," he agreed, obviously proud that his occasional tendency to ride naked through Central Park hadn't been passed to his daughter.

Kate nodded. "Of course." Her lips twitched.

Now Rick was concerned. "What? Kate –"

"A ringer."

"What?"

"You say 'what' once more and I'll begin to think you're going deaf."

"Kate ..."

She took pity on him, a little. "She's got two diaries. She lets you read the one that's ... ordinary. Talks about the films she's seen, her school work." She could see his mind working, could almost hear the thoughts in his head. "Then there's the other one." She had to stop the lip twitch becoming a grin at his expression.

"You mean ... are you saying ..." He couldn't finish, closing his jaw with an audible snap of his teeth.

"It hadn't occurred to you that she just might be as sneaky as you are?"

"No."

For once Rick didn't pick up on the suggestion he was sneaky, and Kate felt a prick of guilt. Instead he looked worried, imaging all sorts of things that a pretty, vivacious sixteen year old could get up to.

Okay. Maybe this was just a little bit too cruel. "Castle, I'm sure she doesn't have anything bad to write anyway."

"Right."

"She's Alexis. She's the sensible one."

He took a breath. "True. But she's intelligent, too. It wouldn't take much for her to be able to ..." He swallowed. "Was yours ..."

For just a split second she wondered whether to tell him the truth, but instead went with, "No, Castle. Mine was pretty much wishful thinking."

She could see him relax, just a notch.

"So it was all about whoever you were crushing on?"

"Mmn."

"And who was that?"

"Nobody I intend to tell you about."

"Teacher, student or film star?"

"Castle ..."

"Come on, for Nikki Heat."

He was back to normal, and she tried not to shake her head. He was so easy to distract sometimes.

"Even for Nikki Heat. Use that supposed huge imagination of yours."

"Not the only thing that's huge," he joked, then quickly went on before she could comment, "Besides, I might be wrong."

"You? Never."

"Are you being facetious?"

"Me?" She glanced down at the heap of files still waiting on her desk to be reviewed and initialled, and felt an urge to be sidetracked herself. "So, did you and Alexis have a good time?" she asked.

"At the Guggenheim?"

"Yes."

"Of course. I always have a good time with my daughter. I'm a good time kind of guy." He waggled his eyebrows at her, and the urge to be distracted vanished like the morning mist.

She sighed, but luckily the words that were about to cut the author down to size were put on the back burner as the phone went. She picked it up. "Beckett." There was a pause, then she said, "We'll be right there." Hanging up she looked at Rick. "Lanie has an identification. And something she didn't want to tell us over the phone."

That was more like it. "Sounds suspicious." He stood up. "Do you think he's a spy? Poisoned by some rare and almost undetectable venom from a South American snake that only lives in the upper regions of the Amazon?"

Kate got to her feet, taking her leather jacket from the back of her chair. "We won't find out if we don't get there."

---

"Poison?" Rick asked, his eyes bright and hopeful as he stood with Kate in the ME's lab, a shrouded body in front of them, only the face on view.

Lanie Parrish shook her head. "Caisson Disease."

"What?" Kate looked confused.

Rick almost bounced on his feet. "You're kidding."

"Am I missing something here?" Kate asked.

"Decompression sickness," Rick explained before Lanie could get in.

"Decomp ..." Kate looked from her partner to her friend. "Don't only for divers get that?"

"Not exclusively. People flying in unpressurised aircraft can get it, as can extra-vehicular activity from a spacecraft."

"Are you saying he's an astronaut?"

"Or an alien?" Rick put in, but both women ignored him.

"No, in this case I can say pretty categorically he was a diver. From the damage to his joints, I'd say he dived on a regular basis." Lanie drew the sheet back so they could look at the body. She lifted one of his hands and they could see his wrist was swollen, the tendons gnarled like old wood. "And it's how he died."

"Lanie, he's not exactly close to the river."

"It can take hours for the symptoms to appear," Rick said. "If he came up too quickly, nitrogen bubbles develop in the bloodstream and can cause pain in the joints, headaches, vertigo ..."

"There's a whole host of symptoms," Lanie agreed.

"But not usually death."

"It happens, particularly when the diver's got underlying medical conditions." She picked up her board. "Patent foramen ovale."

"Bless you," Rick said.

"Which is?" Kate asked, glaring at him.

"It's a hole between the atrial chambers of the heart. Probably born with it." Lanie looked down at the body. "He shouldn't have been diving at all, since the pressure forced the bubbles into his arterial system. They were then trapped in his joints, causing extreme pain. Technically, though, he died of myocardial infarction."

"A heart attack. So you're saying this was natural causes."

"A bubble travelled to his heart, so that's cause of death. But I don't think it's the whole story." She looked at Rick. "Give me a hand."

The author was surprised. "What?"

"A hand. I pulled a muscle a couple of days ago in my back and I don't want to strain it."

"That's why you were ... less than polite this morning?"

"Just help." She moved the sheet back to reveal the dead man's torso, pale and clammy looking. "We need to turn him."

"But I'm not wearing gloves."

"Castle!"

"Fine, fine," he muttered, suitably chastised. "But if I catch something fatal, Alexis will sue."

"She can't," Kate pointed out. "You signed your life away. Remember?"

He glared at her, but gingerly put his hands where Lanie indicated, and between them they rolled the body onto its right side.

"There," the ME said, indicating a dark line just above the corpse's waist that ran for maybe a hand's width. It gaped a little, showing whiteness beneath.

Kate moved closer, peering intently. "Knife wound?"

"It ran along the rib. From the directionality, I'd say the assailant was aiming for his spine."

"There wasn't any blood visible at the scene."

Lanie shrugged elegantly. "He managed to dress it, or someone did it for him. His t-shirt was stained, but not soaked."

"So he was diving, came up too fast, managed to deal with the cut, then ... what, staggered some distance to where he was found?" Rick asked.

"Or drove. Or caught a cab. I'll get the boys checking," Kate said, still gazing at the knife wound. "This wouldn't have been debilitating?"

"No, Just painful," Lanie confirmed.

"Was he cut in or out of the water?" Rick wanted to know.

It was a good question, but Kate wasn't about to say so. "Lanie?" she asked instead.

The ME half-twisted, and only Rick noticed the slight wince on her face. She picked up a glass vial, a sliver of something black resting at the bottom. "Probably in," she said, turning it so it caught the light. "I found this in the wound – it's neoprene."

"A wetsuit." Rick looked at Kate. "Which explains why his underwear was damp. He gets attacked during or just after a dive, before he's had a chance to change. He gets away somehow, grabs his clothes and dresses without bothering to dry off first, finds a first aid kit to deal with the cut, then drives – or takes a cab – to where he was found." He paused. "But why go to that particular building?"

"Decompression sickness can affect the brain," Lanie said. "Confusion, memory loss ... it's possible he was planning to head home but just got lost."

"Which comes down to the other question." Kate stood upright. "You said you had an ID."

"Yeah." Lanie glanced down at the corpse's face, calm now she'd smoothed out the death throes. "He's in the system for half a dozen driving offences and a little weed smoking in college. Oliver Stanford." She handed over the copy of a rap sheet.

Kate took it, compared the image and the body in front of her, his short brown hair pushed back from his forehead instead of flopping forward, but undoubtedly the same. She scanned the details. "He's only twenty-five."

"Well, he's not going to reach twenty-six. There's an address in the Village," Lanie went on.

"We'll go take a look, see what might have got him killed." Kate smiled at her friend. "Thanks, Lanie."

"I'm still waiting on a few results, but if I find out anything else, I'll let you know."

Kate thanked her once more before she and Rick went back outside into the fresh air.

"That place always makes me light-headed," he commented as they walked towards the car. "All that formaldehyde." He grinned slightly. "Not that I mind. It reminds me of my youth." At her look he added quickly, "Chem class."

Her expression changed to one of _yeah, right. _"You could've stayed. I'm sure Lanie has a nice, cold, steel drawer all ready for you. It probably has your name on it."

He leaned on the roof, watching her as she undid the driver's door. "How can you be so cruel?" he complained.

"Proximity." She smiled and slid inside.

He growled under his breath, but got in next to her. "Actually, I was wondering how come we're still involved in this."

Kate turned the key, hearing the engine start immediately. "What is it, Castle? Don't want to look into the case of a man who died of the Bends on dry land? I thought you'd be all over this."

"Oh, I'm interested. I'm very interested. But technically he wasn't murdered."

"Not for want of someone trying, according to Lanie." Kate pulled the car out into traffic. "I think it's close enough that the Captain will allow us a bit of leeway."

Rick sat back, a smirk on his lips. "Good. Because I get the feeling this could be fun."

"Murder isn't meant to be fun."

"Maybe not. But that doesn't mean it isn't."

"Castle."

Just the one word and he wanted to sit back on his ass and beg for treats. Or a fondle around the ears. Or other parts. But mindful of those other parts being tweaked, pinched, punched or shot, he decided to shut up, so he just smiled at her and settled back into his seat, watching the world and the New York traffic go by.

Not that he could keep his lips sealed for long. "You haven't asked," he said conversationally as they drew up by a tall brownstone, flanked on the pavement by trees not yet showing the green mist of spring.

"Asked what?"

"About why it's called Caisson Disease."

She sighed. "If I shoot you now, will it stop you?"

"Probably not," Rick admitted. "I'd probably haunt you, whispering the answer in your ear as you slept."

"Then I suppose I'd better get it over with." The car safely against the sidewalk, she turned the engine off and twisted in her seat enough so she could face him. "So tell me, Castle. Why do they call it Caisson Disease?"

He was more than happy to oblige. "When they were constructing tunnels or bridges like the Brooklyn Bridge, they had to work below the water table, so they erected chambers, or caissons, which were sunk through the water to the river bed where they were able to dig the foundations without drowning. The caissons were kept under pressure to stop water flooding in, but the workers didn't know they couldn't just go straight outside. Fifteen men died building Eads Bridge from a mystery illness that they eventually realised was due to the high pressure inside the caissons, thus Caisson Disease." He waited for her to comment, but all she did was slide her eyes away from him and climb from the car.

Rick couldn't help the grin as he followed her, but he wiped it quickly from his face as he sidestepped a small poodle with a large woman on the end of a lead and joined her at the bottom of the steps. "Nice building," he commented, looking upwards.

"Are you going to give me chapter and verse on the architecture here as well?" she asked, one eyebrow raised slightly.

"Just saying."

"Well, don't." She turned on her heel and started up towards the front door in a swirl of leather jacket and the scent of cherries, knowing he was going to be right behind her.


	3. Chapter 3

Oliver Stanford's place looked like a bomb had hit it.

Rick looked around the devastation. "I'm guessing either the maid hasn't been in yet, or someone didn't like him."

"He's had visitors all right." Kate walked the apartment, her eyes moving constantly as she headed into the other rooms. "Unwelcome ones."

On the second floor of the four storey brownstone, the building super had let them into Stanford's apartment, hanging around the door trying to peer in until Kate suggested he might be better employed elsewhere, and she hardly had to threaten him at all.

"Any idea when?" Rick called out.

"There's spilled milk on the floor from the fridge in the kitchen," Kate said, coming back into the main room. "It's not started to smell yet."

"So since our vic died." He looked down at the CDs scattered like large silver confetti, their cases cracked and trampled into the carpet. He noted the titles of the few he could still see. Michael Bublé, Green Day, Red Hot Chilli Peppers … "He had eclectic tastes. And an eye for nostalgia." He nodded at one particular cover. "He's got _The Lambs Greatest Hits_."

He was surprised to see Kate's head jerk up. "_The Lambs_? _Lambs to the Slaughter?_"

"I'd give you a cigar if I had one." He couldn't help staring at her. "You know them?"

She half-smiled. "I went to their last concert at Madison Square Garden. Of course, nobody knew then it was going to be their last. But I was there."

"Hey, me too." He had to grin. "Odd to think we were both in the same audience and didn't know." He looked her up and down. "But you must have been a babe in arms."

"I was sixteen," she admitted. "I sneaked out of the house, and my best friend Mandy and me changed our clothes at the local bus station before heading off on our big adventure."

"Your dad didn't want you to go?"

"I didn't ask."

He shook his head. "Kate Beckett, I'm ashamed of you. And oddly proud."

"Don't go thinking you know all about me. You don't."

"Not peeled back many of the Beckett onion layers, eh?" He laughed. "Hasn't stopped me crying on occasion, though."

Kate ignored his teasing, her mind instead having flickered back to the past. "When I think of what we wore … the jackets, the short skirts, the hair ... we thought we were so grown up."

"Same age as Alexis," Rick pointed out.

She was taken aback. "You know I … I hadn't thought of that. Although I don't think I was quite as mature as she is."

"Very few people are." His eyes crinkled in that warm way he had. "We'll have to compare notes one day on our youth." He paused. "Or is it youths?" He tried the word out again, rolling it around his tongue. "Youths. No, that doesn't sound right."

"Another time, Castle." She headed into the bedroom. "And don't touch anything."

"I know, I know," he muttered. Left alone with his memories, he took a moment to imagine Kate dressed in the trademark Lambs outfit of black leather jacket, dark green bustier, very short black leather skirt and biker boots, topped off with an absolutely white wig backcombed to within a inch of its life. He grinned. Somehow it wasn't that difficult to picture her as a slightly younger version of the Lambs lead singer, Niamh Buchanan. He sighed. Ah, happy days.

Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, a pristine square of white linen given to him by his mother on a long-ago birthday, he opened the door next to him. A cupboard, apparently used for coats from the hooks on the wall and the single waterproof duster still hanging up. His eyes travelled to the floor. "No gear," he called out.

"What?"

"Tank, flippers … it looks like there's a space in the closet, but it's empty."

"So he didn't come back. Unless someone took them."

Rick touched a broken plate with his toe. "I doubt it. Whoever did this was looking for something, and I think we can be pretty sure they didn't find it."

"Too much destruction. They took out their frustrations on the furniture." She walked back in. "Bathroom and bedroom are the same. Maybe even a bit worse. Someone took the time to shred the sheets."

"Ouch." Stepping carefully amongst the detritus of a life, Rick tilted his head to read a couple of the titles spilled from the bookcase. "_Underwater Archaeology: The NAS Guide to Principles and Practice. International Handbook of Underwater Archaeology_."

"Seems like he was serious about it."

"Not that serious." Rick's lips twitched as he read another. "_Sunken Treasure for Gain and Profit_." He looked up. "Nothing like a bit of tautology to round off the day." If he expected Kate to ask what he meant, he was disappointed.

"Perhaps he wasn't making enough money from it," she said instead. "The rent on this place might be high, but the furniture isn't much above mediocre."

"Even before the bad guys got their hands on it," Rick agreed.

"Well, we can't do much else until it's been swept." Kate pulled her cellphone from the pocket of her red coat, thumbing the speed-dial.

* * *

"Anything?" Ryan asked, looking up from his desk as they walked back into the squad room.

Kate dropped into her chair, wondering if she could persuade anyone to give her a shoulder rub. The trouble was, Castle would probably be only too happy to oblige. "Someone went through the apartment like a whirlwind," she said instead.

Rick nodded. "A tornado." He grinned. "And I found out Kate was a rock chick in her youth."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"In your dreams," Kate said, then went on, "CSU's printing the place now, but I'd bet they wore gloves."

"I wouldn't take that bet if I were you," Rick said to Ryan, looking at him from under his eyebrows and winking slightly, promising, without need of words, to give him the full lowdown on his boss's rebellious teenage years later.

"No chance." Ryan nodded fractionally, sealing the deal.

"So, what did you get on our vic?" Kate wanted to know, having seen the slight exchange but deciding not to let it ruin her day.

Ryan plucked his notebook from his pocket. "Oliver Stanford. Born and raised in New York, parents died in a car accident when he was fourteen, and he was raised by an aunt. She died three years ago. Since then he's been living in that apartment. I checked his financials – his credit cards are maxed out, and he's two months behind on the rent, even though it's controlled."

"Oh? How much?" Rick asked, then held up a hand on seeing the look Kate gave him. "Later."

Kate turned back to Ryan. "Anything more relevant?"

"Well, now you mention it …" Ryan grinned. "Oliver was a student at East Carolina, doing their Program in Maritime Studies, only he dropped out during his Junior year."

"Any idea why?"

"Well, I spoke to the secretary, and reading between the lines I'd say he was encouraged to leave before he got kicked out. Something about plundering a site."

Her mind going back to the books scattered about the apartment, Kate said, "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"His room-mate went at the same time."

Kate's ears perked up, and her spidey-sense started twitching. "Tell me you got details on the friend."

Ryan grinned. "Of course." He read from his notepad. "Clyde Osaki. Also on the same program, also asked to go." He held out a yellow post-it note. "He lives in the city, and here's his address."

"Good job."

Ryan basked in the praise a moment. "Thanks, boss."

"Get uniforms to see if they can round Osaki up. He might know what Stanford was up to."

"Given their past history, I'd take a guess he was involved too."

"Let's hope so."

Ryan turned to the phone, intent on following out his orders, but listening to the conversation going on behind him all the same.

Rick gazed at the white board, a photo of Stanford already pasted up, the bare basics written in marker underneath. "I see you've got the murder wall going already. Although technically it should probably be called the 'might be murder, might not' wall."

Kate moved some things around on her desk, checking the pink message slips. "Oh, I'm pretty sure there was foul play involved. Aren't you?"

"Of course. But I see murder everywhere." He waggled his eyebrows at her.

"You know, you really ought to see a psychiatrist."

"Well, if I start sticking pencils up my nose and wearing my underpants on my head, I promise you can take me." He smiled at her. "You know, this case just gets curiouser and curiouser."

"Alice in Wonderland?" Kate was amused, despite herself. "You know, I can see you as the Mad Hatter."

"Mercury," Ryan said, putting down the phone, then looked guilty as they both twisted enough to stare at him.

"What?" Kate put her hands on her hips in bemusement.

"Mercury. The reason he was mad. Hatters used to use it when making … hats, and it sent them crazy. Or so I've heard," Ryan added hurriedly.

"Really. I think you've been reading too much again." Kate turned her gaze to Rick. "What's your excuse?"

Rick perched on the corner of her desk, hands held loosely in his lap. "For being insane or reading too much?"

"The former."

"I'll have you know I'm as sane as the next man," Rick insisted. "Admittedly the next man is Honey Milk, but I think it's still valid."

"Hey!" Ryan complained. "Aren't you ever going to let that drop?"

"No," Kate and Rick said together.

The detective sighed. "Figures."

"Besides, I've always thought of myself more as the Cheshire Cat," Rick said, gazing into the distance. "Dropping words of wisdom into uncaring ears, then disappearing, and leaving nothing behind except my smile."

"I wish you would disappear," Kate muttered

"Your wish, my lady ..." Rick stood up then bowed, somehow spoiling the effect by holding his back as he straightened up. "Anything likely to be happening tonight?"

Kate shook her head. "I doubt it, unless they manage to bring Osaki in. Why?"

"Maggie's just got into town. I thought we'd have a quiet little dinner together."

"Just the two of you?"

His lips twitched. "Why, are you jealous?"

"Me?"

"You."

"No."

"That's okay, then." He chuckled. "And no, I imagine Alexis and my mother will be there."

"Then enjoy your meal. And say hi to Maggie for me, will you?"

"Sure." He was glad two of the favourite women in his life managed to get along, even like each other. Normally that didn't seem to happen. "See you in the morning."

She watched him leave, waving vaguely at her before he turned the corner for the elevator, and wondered at the slight twinge in her chest.

* * *

Maggie was in the shower when he got home, but his mother and daughter were waiting for him, both with their coats on.

"What's going on?" he asked, tossing his keys onto the table.

"We're going out," Martha announced.

"Why? Where?"

"To give you and Maggie some time alone."

"Mother, you don't have to do that."

"She's really uptight, Dad," Alexis put in. "We just … we both think it might be a good idea if you calm her down. You know you're good at that."

"But she loves you," he protested. "The pair of you. I know she'll want to spend some time with you."

"Tomorrow," his mother assured him, patting him on the arm. "Tonight, kiddo, you're going to make out like you're a grown-up and look after her."

"Besides, this is Grams' treat. She's taking me to a strip club," Alexis said, her face perfectly ingenuous as she wrapped her scarf around her neck.

"She's what?" Rick's voice almost went hypersonic, then he took a deep breath as he realised he was on the receiving end of the teasing for a change. "Oh, very good. Ha ha. Very funny."

"We're going out for an early dinner, then one of my fellow cast members recommended an exhibition by a friend of his." Martha laughed. "And she gets you far too easily."

"Like grandmother, like granddaughter." He hugged them both, one in each arm. "Just don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Well, that leaves us plenty of leeway," Martha said, glancing at Alexis and winking. "Maybe we should go to that show after all."

"Show?" Rick looked down into her face. "What kind of show?" His eyes narrowed. "Mother? What kind of show?"

"The Atlantic City Dancers." Martha pulled on one of her leather gloves. "An all male troupe. Lots of gyrating and very little clothes."

"Mother …"

"It would complete Alexis's education." But she couldn't help from smiling. "Oh, darling, don't worry," she added, slapping him with the other glove. "She may be more grown up than you, but she's still only 16. They wouldn't let her in."

"Good. She's far too young to be thinking about things like … that."

Alexis ducked out of his embrace and took a couple of paces backwards towards the door. "And this from the man who has the Lingerie Football League programmed into his Tivo."

"Now _that_ is educational. Besides, it was research. I was considering Derrick Storm being taken to a game and investigating the murder of one of the referees. I was going to call it _A Job to Kill For_." He pasted the words into the air with his free hand.

"I believe you."

"I'm sure you do." Rick smiled. "Have a good time."

Alexis danced back and planted a kiss on his cheek. "We will. And you make Maggie happy."

"Within reason," Martha added quickly, herding her granddaughter out of the apartment.

"I shall just be my normal, charming self," Rick promised.

"Can't you try a little harder than that?"

Rick opened his mouth to comment, but they were down the corridor and around the corner before he could think of something suitably pithy to say. He grinned. Sometimes it was way too obvious they were all one family. Although he was glad he didn't have to live with having red hair.

He closed the door, then heard soft footsteps on the stairs. He looked up. "Hey."

Maggie Maguire, dressed in one of his huge, fleecy bathrobes, smiled at him. "Hey."

"You okay?" He studied her face, seeing the dark circles under her eyes, the slight slump to her shoulders.

"Oh, peachy. I just love being accused of something I haven't done."

"Happens to me all the time," Rick admitted. "Although some of the time it's true." He smiled. "Remember that night with the donkey?"

She shuddered dramatically. "I'd rather not." Glancing around the apartment, she added, "Where's Martha and Alexis?"

"Gone out for the evening," Rick said, walking towards the kitchen area.

"Was it something I said?" Maggie padded barefoot down to the floor, following him.

"They're being thoughtful."

"Thoughtful. Huh."

"Mother thinks you might feel more comfortable talking about this if they're not here."

"That's crazy."

"That's what I said. Coffee?" He held up an opened pack of grounds. "Or something stronger?"

"I think it'd better be coffee." Maggie sighed. "The way I'm feeling, I might not stop at one bottle."

"Ooh, that bad?" He filled the coffeemaker.

"Not good."

Rick switched the machine on, made sure it was working, then took her by the arm, leading her to the sofa. "Come on," he said, making her sit down next to him. "Tell Dr Rick all about it."

"_Dr_ Rick?"

"I often wondered why I didn't become a psychologist."

"Physician, heal thyself?" Maggie suggested.

"Probably."

"Besides, I always thought you wanted to be a vet."

"That was just for the uniform. Something about the long, elbow-length latex gloves ..."

Maggie laughed. "That is way too much information."

He grinned. "Better. Much better to hear you laugh."

She sobered again. "Yeah. If only a court case could be avoided the same way."

He reached down and lifted her feet onto his lap. "It's likely to go that far?"

"Mackinnon's lawyers are trying to avoid it, but ..." She sighed again. The Mackinnon Publishing House had taken her on right at the beginning, when her first novel had been badly typed on cheap paper, giving her a three-book deal that had allowed her to be what she really wanted, a proper full-time writer, and not just one of the weekend types. From that point on they'd had a wonderful relationship, her books appearing regularly at the top of the best-seller lists, often cheek-by-jowl with Rick's. Now, though ...

"They're not suggesting you actually did plagiarise, are they?" Rick asked, surprised.

"I don't know." She put her head on the back of the sofa. "They've given me copies of this ... this person's letters, his so-called proof and told me to come back again the day after tomorrow. They also recommended I might like to bring a specialist lawyer with me."

"They're not planning on washing their hands of the whole deal, are they?"

"I don't know." She rubbed her eyes with her fists, putting Rick in mind of Alexis when she was about four years old. "I don't know any more, Rick."

"So talk to me. You know what I think. What I know. And that is that you'd never plagiarise anyone. Ever."

She smiled a little. "You have great faith in me."

"And I'm pretty sure it's not misplaced. Tell me."

"It'll be boring."

"Then bore me. Mags, I deal with criminals every day. I might not be a cop, but I've got a pretty good nose for who done it, and I know you didn't." He leaned over, dropping his voice a little. "Besides, I know people. Maybe I can call in a few favours, make this all go away."

"I'm not having you put a contract out on him."

"We can talk about that later." He laughed lightly. "Come on. Tell me who this idiot is, and why he thinks you stole his book."

She gazed at him, her green eyes calculating, then she ran a hand through her spiky black hair. "Okay. But I need coffee too."

"Coming right up." He swung her legs off his lap, standing then replacing them on the sofa. "You talk while I get the mugs."

She rested her chin on the back of the couch, watching him as he moved through his apartment. "How come you're such a good friend, Rick?" she asked.

He glanced over his shoulder at her and grinned. "Mags, you've seen me at my worst. You picked up the pieces after Kyra. Supported me through both my divorces. Been there for me, every single time. If I can't pay you back, just a little, what kind of man am I?"

"A good one."

"You'll make my head swell." He opened the cupboard over the coffee machine. "Now, stop prevaricating and talk."

"Fine." She lay back on the sofa, putting her head on the arm, pain and anger etched on her face now he couldn't see. "Fine ..." she murmured again, wondering where to start.


	4. Chapter 4

"What do you know about a guy named Howard Harrison?" Rick asked, dropping into his usual chair next to Kate's desk next morning.

"Absolutely nothing." Kate didn't even bother looking up from the file she was reading. "Why?"

"Can you run a background check on him?"

"No." She glanced quickly at him. "What are you doing here anyway? It's Sunday."

"You're here," he pointed out.

"I've got work to do. And criminals don't take weekends off." She tapped the file. "Besides, it gives me a chance to catch up on paperwork."

Rick managed to look scandalised. "Kate, tell me you have a life beyond your job."

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Yes."

"Forget it."

His lips twitched, but he returned to his original subject. "Howard Harrison."

"What about him?"

"Can you do a background check on him?" Rick repeated.

"I told you. No."

"Pretty please?"

She raised her head. "Why? Did he cut you up or something?"

"No. I just ..." He leaned forward, his elbow on the desk. "Can you?"

"Castle, I need a reason."

At least she didn't tell him to get lost again, a win in his book. But he still wasn't sure just how much to divulge. "Kate, if I tell you, you're not to laugh."

Her eyes danced a little. "Sounds fun."

"Oh, believe me, it isn't."

The serious look on his face got her attention. "Okay," she said slowly. "Explain."

"It's Maggie." He paused for a moment, then decided to be totally honest. "Kate, this can't go any further. If the press get a hold of it, particularly at this stage ..."

She turned enough so she could face him. "I promise they won't hear anything from me."

She meant it, he knew. "This Howard Harrison is accusing Maggie of plagiarising one of his books."

Her expression didn't alter. "Plagiarising."

Rick nodded. The previous evening he'd managed to finally persuade Maggie to let him see the evidence against her, and they'd spent a good portion of the night going through it, trying to find the loophole. "Whole chapters from a book of his called _Freshman's Creek._ The plot, characters ..."

She relaxed a little. "I thought it was going to be murder."

"It is!" He looked around, making sure nobody had heard his raised voice, and whispered, "To a writer it can be the kiss of death." Sitting back he shook his head. "If it gets into the press, even if Maggie was totally exonerated, it would always be out there. Every time someone wrote an article, invited her for an interview, there it would be. And that's apart from the fact it would bring out all the weirdos trying to make a fast buck by jumping on the band wagon by filing copycat lawsuits."

"Did she?"

"What?"

"Plagiarise him?"

He stared at her. "Kate, how can you ask that?"

"I'm a cop."

He bit back on the remark he wanted to make, that maybe she should be a friend first, and instead said, "No, she didn't."

"Good. So this Harold Harrison –"

"Howard. Howard Harrison."

"Okay, _Howard _Harrison says he's got proof. Has he?"

"Yeah." That explained the sadness seeming to hang over him. "It looks like maybe he has."

She closed the file in front of her, clasping her hands lightly. "Tell me."

Rick took a deep breath, holding it for a long moment before releasing it through his nose. "Letters. To Maggie, asking her to read his book, comment on it."

"Castle, they can be faked."

"I know. Bit more difficult with emails, and there's the old classic of a copy of his book sent recorded post."

"Awkward."

"And a witness."

Her eyebrows raised slightly. "Witness?"

"It appears Harrison doesn't type, so he employed someone to make up his notes for him. She swears ..." He stopped, shaking his head. "Damn it, Kate, this is ridiculous. Maggie doesn't have to steal someone else's ideas, characters ... she's too good."

"Does she know Harrison?"

Rick slumped back. "Sort of." He shook his head. "A few years ago she did a stint working at a community college, teaching a writing course. It started off in the name of research, but after a while she really got into it, enjoyed it. Apparently he was one of her students. He says she agreed to read anything he wrote, all he had to do was contact her."

"And she remembers him?"

"No."

Kate sat back, tapping her bottom lip with her finger. "Which book?"

"_Tears at Midnight._"

"That's only just come out."

"I know. The LA launch was last week."

"I haven't even received my copy yet."

"I'll get one for you."

She gazed at him. "Okay. I can't promise to do much more than check to see if there's any warrants against him –"

"Thanks. Thanks, Kate. I know Maggie's going to be grateful too." He took a folded piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and slid it across the desk towards her. "His details."

Kate's mouth twitched. "You knew I was going to say yes?"

"You're Maggie's friend as well as mine."

"Okay." She picked it up, tucked it under her computer keyboard. "I'll see what I can find out." Her cellphone rang and she picked it up, checking the caller display before answering. "Esposito. What have you got?"

The detective's voice came across loud and clear. "We've found Stanford's truck."

* * *

It wasn't really a truck, more an old SUV. Now a dusty, dirty white, highlighted with rust here and there, it had a wide wheel-base with tyres that were seriously on the edge of illegal. It was also empty.

Ryan stood with his hands thrust deep into his overcoat pockets, a chill wind blowing down the river and getting places he really wished it wouldn't. "Looking into Stanford's history we realised he had a fair number of unpaid parking tickets, all from the same area. We got uniforms to check it out, and they came up lucky."

Kate peered through the driver's side window. "Good work."

"CSU's on its way," Esposito added. "They'll be a while, though – apparently they're backed up."

"No, I can understand that," Kate said. "We've got a body, but not necessarily a murder. They're not exactly going to rush." She walked around to the rear of the vehicle, one hand held up so she could see inside. "Looks like this is where he changed – there's tanks in the back."

Rick pulled his own coat collar up higher and strolled a few paces away to take in the surroundings.

The SUV was sitting in the shadows of the warehouses edging the Hudson River, at the end of the wharf overlooking the murky waters. Across the river he could see office buildings, factories, and in the distance there was the hum of traffic, but this side seemed eerily quiet. Perhaps it was because it was Sunday, although the recession probably had a lot to do with it.

Somewhere a bird called, a wailing cry like someone in pain that drifted on the cold air, dying away on the breeze, and Rick shivered slightly. "Not exactly where I'd decide to dive," he said, turning back. "Not out of choice, at least."

"Then there must have been another reason." Kate stood up and looked at Ryan. "Any word on Osaki?"

The detective shook his head. "Uniforms went round, but got no answer. Esposito and I dropped by to see if he'd come home, but according to his neighbours they haven't seen him for a few days."

"And you didn't check out his apartment?" Rick wanted to know.

"Probable cause, bro," Esposito said regretfully. "The bane of every cop's life."

Ryan nodded in agreement. "Anyway, he's as maxed out on his credit cards as Stanford. Lots of charges to a dive shop in Brooklyn, refilling tanks, that kind of thing. Whatever they've been up to, they've been doing it for three or four weeks."

"I wonder why Brooklyn," Kate mused, the little dint between her eyebrows back in play. "There are places closer to home."

"So as not to arouse suspicion?" Rick suggested. "If what they were doing is illegal, they wouldn't want it to come up in a search."

"Then why charge it to their credit cards?"

Rick smiled. "Hey, I'm just making a suggestion. I never said they were smart." He looked back across the water. "Are there any wrecks around here?"

"You'd be amazed," Esposito put in. "There was a survey a few years back, where they claimed they found all the sunken ships, well over three hundred according to reports."

Kate raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know you were into diving."

Esposito grinned. "I've done some. Once in a while. Not in anything like the Hudson, though."

"So anything worth salvaging around here?"

"Nobody knows." The detective shrugged. "The guys in charge decided it'd attract treasure hunters if they broadcast all the co-ordinates."

"It didn't exactly keep them away, either," Kate said, seeing the CSU truck arrive at the end of the dock.

"There's recorded wrecks, of course. Lots of divers use them as practice."

"I'm surprised they could see anything." Rick smiled, then gave a start, his warehouse of a memory throwing him a bone. "Wait, wasn't there something about silver ingots?"

"Not here, man. Up near Arthur Kill. About 26 million dollars at the last count, all just sitting on the bottom, waiting to be scooped up."

"You've never been tempted?"

"I prefer doing my diving in the warm." Esposito stamped his feet. "Besides, lots of people have looked and come up empty. And it's not just boats … cars, pipes, rebars, even an ice cream truck or two … you'd be amazed. And of course, it's traditional for the old concrete overcoat."

Rick was intrigued. "I thought that was an old wives tale."

"Nope. You'd be amazed what pops up after a storm, or the river's high."

"And that's where I come in." Robert Chase, one of the crime scene specialists, approached them. "Did you touch anything?"

Ryan tutted. "Would we ever, Chevy?"

Chase closed his eyes briefly. He hated that nickname, but had learned not to say anything – it only made it worse. "I don't think I'd put anything past you two."

"That's why you love us," Esposito said, grinning widely.

"No. I'm pretty sure it's not that," he added dryly as he snapped on a pair of blue gloves.

* * *

"A mobile espresso machine," Rick said, hunkering his shoulders to try and maintain a core of warmth. The wind coming down the Hudson carried the promise of snow, if not the actuality.

"What?" Kate was watching Chase and his crew brushing for fingerprints, and didn't take much notice of him.

"To make fresh coffee while we're out on a case." He was getting into the swing of it. "And if they don't make one, I'll commission it. We can put it in the trunk of your car."

Kate gave him that look. "No, you can't."

"Just for emergencies."

Kate shook her head. "You could have stayed at home," she said, glad of her own gloves. "Nobody made you come out. Don't you have other things to do?"

Rick felt a flash of guilt at leaving his oldest friend, but said, "It's Sunday. What else would I be doing?"

"Be with Maggie?"

"Alexis and my mother are entertaining her today. When I left they'd got out the old photo albums, starting with the pictures of me, aged about three, naked on a rug. I decided discretion was the better part of embarrassment and ran for it." He shuddered, and not from the cold. "Between them they know far more of my secrets than I'm comfortable with."

"You don't know how to be embarrassed."

"I can pretend." He smirked. "It's a gift."

"And I know all your secrets too," she pointed out. "I've read your jacket, remember?"

"Ah, good days." The smirk widened, and he turned his mischievous blue gaze on her. "But everyone has secrets, Kate. Even me."

"You know, I'm not even going to ask."

"I'll keep them for pillow talk, then."

She glared at him, but didn't get the chance to make any cutting remark as Chase was approaching.

"All clear," the CSU said, his still-gloved hands fluttering slightly. When he worked they were as steady as a rock, but as soon as he didn't have a fingerprint brush or swab in them, they were as distracting as birds at a window.

"Anything?" Kate strode towards the SUV, the other men having to hurry to keep up.

"Nothing unexpected, no bullet holes or casings. Lots of prints, from two people by the look of it, although from the smudges laid on top I'd say at least one other person, wearing gloves."

"Someone searched?"

"I wouldn't like to conjecture." He saw her open her mouth, so added quickly, "But if I were forced to, I'd say that was a likely assumption." He flicked his fingers at a colleague who passed over an evidence bag. "Although we did find this. It was tossed under the driver's seat."

Kate peered through the plastic. "It's a camera."

"Better than that," Rick said, looking over her shoulder. "It's an underwater video camera. Pretty high end. I've got one myself."

"Well, let's hope they recorded everything on it."

"Sorry, you're out of luck there," Chase said apologetically. "There's no memory chip in it."

"Damn. I should have known that was going to be too easy." She was annoyed, but had nobody to take it out on.

A smile crept across his face. "Then I think you'll be glad to see this." Another bag, this time much smaller, something half the size of a credit card inside.

"You like doing that, don't you?" Kate said, taking it from him, noting the high memory value of the contents.

"I have to get some pleasure out of life."

"Mmn." She handed it to Esposito. "We'll take a look at it at the precinct." She glanced at Chase. "Can I get inside the car?"

"We'll take it back, strip it some more, but I doubt there's going to be much else. So be my guest."

Kate opened the rear door, peering into the darker interior. A set of breathing apparatus lay against the side wall, a wetsuit stretched out next to it like a second skin. "Was it laid out like this?" she asked, touching but not moving the neoprene.

"No. We unrolled it. There's what looks like a knife slash across the back, and we took some samples to compare to those discovered by Dr Parrish." Not 'Lanie', everybody noticed. Even when Chase liked someone, he was a stickler for protocol. "There were traces of what appeared to be blood, too."

She leaned forward, peering at a stain on the floor. "Is that what this is?" she asked quietly.

Chase nodded. "There was a towel with some dried smears on it, too. We bagged it."

"Probably Stanford's," Rick put in. He pointed towards the first aid kit lying open, its contents spewing across the carpet. "He managed to get away from whoever, swam back here, climbed out. He stripped off, towelled dry, then did some emergency first aid before …"

She gazed at him, her mind working. "Before what? Why didn't he just drive off?"

"Waiting for his friend?"

"Maybe. But if you were being chased, wouldn't you want to get away as soon as you could?"

"Well, I would. But I wouldn't be showing the first signs of the bends."

"Castle –"

"He's right," Esposito put in unexpectedly. "A diver relies on his buddy. His partner. And Stanford would have known pretty quickly that he wasn't being followed, so he waited."

Kate wasn't necessarily buying it. "And then?"

Esposito shrugged. "He realised Osaki wasn't coming back up, and he left."

"How? The car's still here."

"The keys are still in the ignition," Chase said, pointing.

Kate turned to her colleague. "Ryan."

The detective slid into the driver's seat, turning on the engine. The starter motor turned over but nothing else happened. He tried again, with the same result. Checking the gauges he gave a bark of laughter and looked at Kate. "He's out of gas."

"That explains it." She pursed her lips slightly. "How's that canvassing of the cab companies going?" she asked Esposito. "I doubt he walked to that building, so someone picked him up. It's possible he made a stop on the way that might help us."

"Haven't heard as yet," the detective admitted. "I'll chase it up."

"Good. Good." Her mind was already working ahead.

Rick stirred. "But why there? Why not head for a hospital, a doctor? Even the cops. He must have known he was in trouble."

"Whatever he was doing was illegal. And you're right, he probably wasn't thinking straight." Kate looked out across the water. "Maybe he _was_ attacked, knifed in the back, getting more and more anxious ... who knows what his state of mind was?"

"Too many mysteries," Rick muttered.

Kate flashed him a brief smile. "That's why we're here, Castle. To solve them. And I'm hoping that memory card might just have some of the answers."


	5. Chapter 5

Back in the precinct, Rick wrapped his hands around the cappuccino mug, trying to get some feeling back into his fingers. It was March, and usually there were at least a few days of decent spring, but so far there was no sign of it.

"Don't worry," Ryan put in, making his own beverage. "Jenny says the weather's going to change."

"Don't tell me. A new ice age."

"Nope. It's going to warm up."

"Good. Can't be too soon." He sipped his coffee, feeling the welcome warmth spread from his belly to other points. "You know, I don't mind it being cold, but that wind was getting places I didn't even know I had."

"Okay," Esposito called. "We're all set."

Ryan and Rick exchanged a grin and hurried out of the break room, joining the others crowded around behind him, watching the screen.

"Why do I feel like I should have popcorn?" Rick asked.

"Milk duds," Ryan put in.

"Really?"

Esposito sighed. "Don't ask," he advised.

"If you're quite finished ..." Kate said, giving them all the patented Beckett eye.

"Sorry." Rick smiled.

She shook her head, then looked back at Esposito. "Do it," she ordered.

"Okay," Esposito said, settling himself more comfortably. "Chevy said this was in the glove compartment, right at the back, so if somebody did search we were lucky they missed it."

"They were probably in a hurry," Rick commented.

"Good news for us." He pressed lightly on the mouse control, bringing the screen to life.

The image flickered, brightened, then swirled, making everyone feel slightly nauseous. A voice issued from the speaker.

"_We up?"_

"_Just ... yeah ... hang on."_

The picture steadied, showing a young man standing next to the SUV, staring at the camera. _"Now?"_ he asked.

"_Now."_

"That's Oliver Stanford," Rick murmured, but the others ignored him.

Stanford ran a hand through his sandy-brown hair, coughed, then began speaking. _"Hi. This is a record of –"_

"_You really want to start like that?"_ This was from whoever was doing the filming.

"_Sure. Why not?"_ Stanford looked perplexed, his gaze moving slightly to one side.

"_It's not very professional."_

Stanford grinned. _"Hell, Clyde. If we do find anything I think we can get someone 'professional' to do it better, don't you? This is just for us."_

There was a pause, and the camera dropped a little to show a stack of diving equipment resting against the car, then it was lifted again. _"Okay._" He chuckled. _"Maybe Morgan Freeman."_

"_Nah_,"Stanford laughed. "_My vote goes to Angelina Jolie. If we pay enough she can wear a wetsuit."_

"_Just get on with it."_

Stanford nodded. _"Fine." _He refocused. _"This is a record of our activities on a series of dives in the Hudson River. There are hundreds of wrecks, most of them nothing more than a few planks of wood. But we're hopeful we can find some ..." _He stopped. _"Clyde, I don't think this is a good idea."_

"_Why not?"_

"_What if we do find something? We should keep this a secret."_

The cameraman, presumably Clyde Osaki, laughed, the sound a little overwhelming considering he was closest to the microphone. _"Olly, if we can find our backsides with our bare hands I'll be surprised."_

Stanford looked affronted, then his face dissolved in to a grin. _"Yeah. You're probably right."_ He looked up at the sky. _"Come on, though. I want to get a good hour in before it gets dark."_

"_Fine. We'll do the intro somewhere else."_

The image went grey, then black, then steadied again on a shot of a young man sitting on the edge of the wharf. He was adjusting the hood to his wetsuit, his Asian features marking him out as Osaki. He waved irritably.

"_Turn that thing off,"_ he said. _"Do you have any idea of the cost of those memory cards? We can't waste it."_

"_Don't hassle, bro," _said Stanford, evidently holding the camera. _"We can wipe it later."_

"_Just make sure you do." _Osaki pulled his face mask into position. _"Come on," _he added. _"It's time."_

Again the screen turned grainy, almost grey in colour, but in this case it appeared to be simply because of the water quality of the Hudson River, since a foot wearing a flipper could just be made out. The picture then froze, blacked out and restarted, although there was very little difference in the view. Only the date stamp in the top right corner of the picture indicated a change.

"Is that accurate?" Kate asked, tapping it.

"As far as I can see nobody's tampered with it," Esposito said. "I can get the tech boys to check if you like."

"Let's wait and see what else comes up."

"Sure."

For another minute there was little change, just a few seconds each of one of the divers swimming in front. Something loomed out of the murk at that point, but it was only a rusted lamp standard.

"How much more is there of this?" Kate asked.

Esposito checked. "According to the counter, maybe an hour?"

"Fast forward."

"Very fast," Rick added.

The screen blurred, with little or no definition to the greyness, mind-bending in its monotony, until Kate dropped her hand on Esposito's shoulder. "What's that?"

He slowed right down, going back to normal pace.

"It looks like … a truck," Ryan said.

"There are lots down there," his partner added. "Like I said, even some ice-cream vans."

"This looks like a delivery truck." Kate squinted to make out the name on the side as the camera panned along, but either she needed glasses or the water just wasn't clear enough.

Rick leaned in as something started to tickle his writer's senses. "You know, I'd love to know what's inside."

She glanced at him, noting just how close he was, and how he still smelled of expensive yet masculine aftershave, despite the time. "I think you're about to find out," she said, deliberately turning away.

Indeed, the diver was moving along the truck, and had reached the back and the double doors. One of the divers, impossible to tell which, struggled with the handles, having to wedge himself against the other door in order to get enough purchase, but suddenly the lock gave, and it opened.

"Fifty bucks says it's empty," Ryan said quickly.

"Make it a hundred, and there's treasure inside." Rick held out his hand.

"Done." The two men shook.

Kate shook her head slightly as she watched the pictures unfold, almost able to hear the rusted hinges squealing as they gave.

The diver with the camera swam forward, his view blocked for a moment until he put his hand on his friend's arm, moving him to one side. Whatever light they'd been using seemed to push back the shadows crowded into the truck's interior, and for just a moment someone seemed to look back at them, before the camera tumbled from surprised fingers down into the silt, stirring it up even more. The screen went dark.

"Shit," Ryan murmured.

"Watch your mouth," Kate said. "But for once I agree with you."

* * *

By six-thirty nobody was getting anywhere with finding the location of the truck.

Ryan put the phone down and rubbed his face.

"Anything?" Kate asked.

"The Coastguard said it's within the jurisdiction of the Port Authority," Ryan said tiredly.

"Who said it's up to the Department of the Environmental Conservation," Esposito added.

"Who batted it right back to the Coastguard." Ryan sighed. "And they all say we're not going to get anywhere without a court order."

"And that's if it's even on the list." Esposito looked disgusted.

"Can't you get one?" Rick asked, perched on the corner of Kate's desk.

"No." She poked him with her pen, making him drop into his usual chair instead. "No Judge is going to sign something like that on a whim." She rolled her shoulders, feeling the muscles cramping and idly wondering if she was going to come down with the 'flu like several others in the department. "We need more evidence."

"What about that recording?"

"It's not enough."

"The dead body in the morgue."

"Not murder."

"Somebody tried to kill him." Rick wasn't going to give up without a fight.

"Or maybe he cut it on something sharp down in the river." Kate shook her head. "We need more."

He slumped a little. "Damn."

"I know."

Rick's cellphone chirped at him, and he pulled it from his pocket. Smiling at the caller display, he answered. "Hey, Mags. How's it going?"

"_Rick, get your ass back here right now. I'm cooking."_

"Sounds painful."

"_No, I mean it. It'll be on the plates in forty minutes."_

"Maggie, I can't. Kate and I are –"

Maggie interrupted. _"Bring her too. We can have a catch-up."_

"I don't know."

"_Ask."_

Rick looked at Kate. "Dinner. My place. Now."

Kate's lips twitched. "That's asking?"

"You want me to put Maggie on?"

Kate glanced at Ryan and Esposito, listening shamelessly. "No, that's fine. And okay. I think we're pretty much done here for now, and as I don't have anything in, otherwise it's takeout."

He grinned. "Mags, we'll be home soon."

* * *

Maggie wasn't a particularly adventurous cook, not like Martha – something Rick was inordinately grateful for – but what she did was always tasty. This time it was a huge bowl of spaghetti, and a similar size dish of meatballs in sauce.

"A small helping," Kate pleaded, seeing the heap Maggie had dished up for Rick.

"Huh. You, my friend, need some meat on your bones." Still, Maggie smiled as she said it, serving perhaps half of what sat in front of the others.

"If I eat that much, I won't be able to move."

"You could always stay here," Rick suggested, opening a bottle of St Emilion. "There's room."

"Oh, good idea!" Alexis put in.

"No." Kate smiled at the sixteen year-old. "I need my own bed. But thanks."

Rick held up the bottle. "Then at least have a glass of this. It's particularly good, even if I do say so myself."

"Half."

"Your loss."

Maggie leaned over and stage-whispered to Alexis, "Do you think we should tell her the amount of alcohol that went into the sauce?"

Everyone laughed and began to eat, talking about very general things, but very positively complimenting Maggie on her cooking. She basked in the praise, more relaxed than before, but also aware they were all carefully not mentioning her problems, which she was grateful for. Talking about them in private to Rick was one thing – it was totally different to go over them again in front of other people, even ones as close as these.

Eventually nobody could force another mouthful, and as they sat back Martha very deliberately turned to Kate, saying, "So, how goes the case?"

"Slowly." It was a measure of how comfortable the detective felt in this company that she didn't think twice about going over the facts as they knew them. Of course, she also knew Rick would tell them whatever she didn't, so she was as detailed as she could be. In her precise, police-trained way, she went over what they had found.

"So you think this Osaki is another victim," Alexis said.

"Or the would-be murderer," Rick put in, standing up and starting to clear the plates.

"I'll do that." Maggie got to her feet and tried to take one from him.

"No. You cooked. This is my contribution." He smiled at her.

"You know, I don't think I'm going to argue." She grinned back.

"Good." His blue eyes twinkled.

"So what did it show?" Alexis was too interested in the case to take in the banter. "On the card."

Kate smiled. "Do you want to see?"

The girl bounced forward in her chair. "Really?"

"Really. I've got a copy on my flash drive. Just in case anybody asked." For some reason her gaze fell on Rick, who managed to look offended and smug at the same time, quite a feat as his eyebrows worked overtime.

Alexis was excited. "Dad, can we use your –"

He didn't let her finish, just waved towards his study with the plates in his hand. "Go ahead. I'd actually quite like to see it again myself. Since I don't think I believed it the first time."

Martha picked up her glass. "Sounds kinky."

"Not quite the word I'd use for it myself," Kate said, fishing in her pocket.

* * *

"No, you're right. I think … fascinating might be better." Martha sipped her wine as they watched the grey screen.

Kate chuckled. "In all honesty, most police work is like this. Hours of doing very little but slogging through paper – or recordings, as in this case – punctuated by short periods of hyper-activity."

"As in being shot at," Rick expanded.

"And when did that last happen?"

"Fogarty."

"He only fired because he was scared," Kate scoffed.

"So? He still shot at you."

"He missed."

The others shared an amused glance, then Maggie said, "Children, children. Any more of that and you won't get dessert."

Kate groaned and patted her belly. "You even suggest more food and I'll explode. And you're right," she added. "We shouldn't argue."

"You sound like an old married couple." Alexis observed.

"How many old married couples do you know?" her dad asked.

"Well, there was you and Gina, for a start."

He glanced at his reflection in the window, trying to resist the temptation to suck in his gut. "I'm not old."

"How many candles was it on your birthday cake this time around?"

"Not sure." His lips lifted. "But we needed the fire extinguisher to put it out." He waved his hand. "Anyway, Gina was an aberration. She turned out to be somebody else than I thought."

"Darling, she was only after you for your talent," Martha said, picking up the bottle of wine and emptying it over her glass.

"I know. But I thought I loved her."

There was a silence as the words drifted around the room.

"Well, I for one am glad you came to your senses," Alexis finally said, squeezing his hand.

"Me too, sweetheart." He smiled for her, then his attention was caught by the action on the large plasma screen. "And you're missing the good bit."

"Oh, more water?" Martha asked, just the right amount of sarcasm colouring her voice as she turned back.

"No." He pointed. "That."

"A truck," Maggie said, leaning forward.

"What's inside?" Alexis wanted to know.

Rick smirked. "That, my dear daughter, is the sixty four million dollar question."

The camera panned to the doors, and they watched as they were forced open.

"What was that?" Maggie asked quickly as the camera fell, tumbling over and over until it hit bottom.

Rick used the remote to back up, freezing it on a still image.

"Is that …" Martha's eyes widened. " … a statue?"

Kate nodded. "We think it's marble. And you can just see a painting wrapped in plastic."

Maggie moved even closer, until they were sure all she could see were coloured dots. She moved back half a pace, and they could see she had her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying at it. "It can't be," she finally murmured.

"What?" Rick asked.

"I don't see … but …"

"Maggie, what?"

"I think it might be the Medusa."

"What?"

"The Rokeby Medusa."

"You mean the Rokeby Venus," Alexis said.

"No. No, the Venus was Velasquez' second piece, painted around 1640 or so. It's said his patron wasn't particularly enamoured of the first painting, a Medusa, so he did a second, a companion piece depicting Venus in a similar pose to placate the man who was paying him. When John Morritt bought them in 1813, they were considered very risqué, but both hung at Rokeby Park for a while, then … well, the records aren't clear on whether it was sold, given away or stolen, but the Medusa vanished." She exhaled through her nose. "You know, there're lots of stories about that particular painting. Very bloody stories, so I'm not surprised it's linked now with a suspicious death."

"And you think that's it?"

"I don't know. But I might …" She got up and hurried to the desk, opening Rick's laptop and logging into a search engine and typing quickly. "There's descriptions, of course, but no photos, although there was one copy done by a student of Velasquez …" She stabbed her finger at the screen. "There."

The others crowded round, glancing between the two images.

"It certainly looks the same," Kate admitted.

"Is it valuable?" Martha wanted to know.

Maggie looked pensive. "Well, a Jackson Pollock went in 2006 for $140 million. And if this is real …" She stared at the image, murky as it was. "It looks as if it's been well sealed, and if the water hasn't got in, if there isn't too much damage …"

Rick couldn't wait for her to get to the point in her own good time. "Mags."

"Double that. Triple it. Hell, there are collectors on this Earth that would give all their money, their eye teeth and their mothers to own it."

"How do you know about it?" Kate asked. "Our own art man is down with the 'flu, so I couldn't get his opinion on whether we were just looking at a load of fakes."

"Research," Maggie said succinctly. "For one of my books."

"_Sacred Objects?"_

Maggie grinned widely. "I love it when somebody does that. Knows my books by heart."

"I like them," Kate admitted. "They're not as predictable as some people's."

"I'm going to go out on a limb here and say you mean me." Rick smiled.

She fixed him with her clear, hazel eyes. "Can I help what you infer?"

"Kate, I know you love my stuff."

"Except the titles."

"I don't know what you've got against Heat Wave." He shrugged. "It was … apt."

"I'm more worried about what you're calling the next one."

"That's for me to know and you to try and torture out of me. Feathers work. So does warm chocolate sauce." He waggled his eyebrows.

"Ew, Dad," Alexis put in, making the classic _I'm sixteen but my father can still embarrass me _face.

"Seconded," Maggie added.

"Thirded," Martha agreed.

"Then I apologise." He bowed slightly.

"But I've been thinking," Alexis continued. "How did they know how to get back to it?"

"What, honey?"

"The truck." She nodded towards the screen. "We all know what the Hudson's like, the visibility is terrible. So how did they manage to find the truck again?"

Kate looked at her, appraisingly. "You know, that hadn't actually occurred to me."

"GPS?" Rick suggested.

"Has to be. But tags still aren't that cheap, particularly waterproof ones, and they were maxed out on their credit cards, remember. I didn't notice a tracker on either of them, did you?"

"No." He shook his head. "Considering where they were diving, that was a risk. I guess they splurged it all on that digital camera instead."

"I know how I'd do it." Maggie sat back, looking just a little self-satisfied. "If I was writing this in a book."

They all looked at her, all spiky black hair and green mischievous eyes, but it was Martha who asked encouragingly, "Darling, how?"

"A cellphone."

Rick's face went from confused to understanding. "Oh, yes."

"For those of us on our third glass of wine –"

"Third?"

Martha ignored her son. "– could you explain?"

Maggie nodded. "Modern phones have GPS capability. Put one in a bag, seal it carefully against the water, then leave it on standby wherever you want to get back to. Then just ping your improvised tag. That would give you the co-ordinates, and I'm sure they could borrow a tracker once they knew they were on to something."

"You think they'd carry something like that around?" Kate asked.

"I would. And from the looks of things they weren't going to stop until they made money out of it." She chuckled. "If you found out if your victim had bought a phone recently, you could get the provider to ping it for you, see if it turns up in the middle of the Hudson."

"Damn." Kate couldn't help but laugh.

Rick grinned, smugness radiating from him on his best friend's behalf. "Nice one, Mags," he said approvingly.

"What is it with you writers?" the detective asked. "You all seem to be able to pluck fairly sensible ideas out of thin air."

"Hey, all mine are sensible," Rick complained.

"Aren't you the one who suggested a flea might have had a miniature gun that fired ice bullets?"

"Okay, maybe not all," he admitted. "But this one is."

Maggie smiled. "It's what we do, Kate. Take an impossible situation and make it … possible." Her eyes sparkled. "And thinking about it, I might be able to make something else possible, too." She got up and hurried into the living area.

The others followed, curious.

"Mags?" Rick watched her rummage through her bag, finding her own phone and a small address book.

"I think I know someone who might be able to help with the art," she said, dialling quickly.

"Who are you calling?"

"James."

"Who?"

"James Congreve. He's a curator at the Metropolitan Art Museum. You know."

"I don't think so."

"Of course you do. I'm sure I've spoken about him. Introduced you."

Rick shook his head slowly. "And I'm sure you didn't."

"Really? Oh, well, I meant to. Anyway, I'm sure he'll –" She stopped as evidently the phone was answered the other end. "James? Hi, it's Maggie. Yes, good to hear your voice as well. How are you? Okay. Things could be better, but that's not what I'm calling about." She smiled warmly. "I need a favour."

Rick watched her light up, and wondered at the snag of jealousy in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

**A.N. **The Rokeby Venus is a well known art work, but the Medusa is all my own. There are stories that Velasquez did paint another nude at a time when the Spanish Inquisition frowned on pictures of naked women, but it was lost in antiquity, so who knows?


	6. Chapter 6

Monday morning and Rick was on his own in the bullpen, an occurrence he wasn't familiar with. Ryan and Esposito were out canvassing the neighbourhood where the SUV had been found, Kate had gone down to the second floor (telling him to stay put – or face the consequences), and everyone else seemed to have disappeared.

Last night they'd talked into the small hours. Alexis had gone up to bed because of school, saying goodnight and leaving them to it, and Martha followed shortly after, claiming she had a meeting with her agent first thing, but that left Kate, Maggie and Rick drinking coffee and coming up with any number of possible scenarios that got more and more improbable as the time wore on, but nothing in the way of solid leads.

As Kate left, shaking off yet again Rick's suggestion that she stay, she thanked Maggie, adding, "This James Congreve … does he know his stuff?"

Maggie smiled. "He's one of the most knowledgeable people about art I know. And he makes it interesting – I never feel like he's lecturing me."

"Then thanks again." She shook her head. "The Captain's not going to wait forever on this."

"Is he likely to tell you to stop the investigation?"

"We're Homicide. Stanford is definitely dead, but no amount of pressure on Lanie is going to get her to declare it was murder. Not without a lot more evidence."

"Then we find it," Rick had said.

Now, though, in the cold light of day, he wasn't sure exactly how they were going to manage it. He sighed. And he wasn't getting any further in helping Maggie, either. Kate hadn't had the chance to look into Howard Harrison yet, and he was loathe to go home and give her the bad news.

The sound of the elevator doors opening behind him barely registered as he stared at the murder wall.

Maggie stepped out, a big man at her side. She led him towards the bull pen, pausing when she saw the only occupant.

"Is that him?" Her companion had a deep voice, cultured but with perhaps just a hint of his origins on the streets for flavour.

She nodded. "That's Rick Castle."

"He doesn't look like much. I thought he'd be taller."

"He's sitting down."

"I suppose that makes a difference."

She elbowed him lightly in the stomach. "Behave."

"Why? It's more fun not to."

She smiled. "Come on," she said, walking forwards. "Rick."

He got up from his chair. "Hey, Mags." His gaze was drawn to the man following close behind, and he took the opportunity to study this very masculine unknown quantity.

He was big. That was the first and most obvious thing about him, probably three or four inches taller than Rick himself, and he was no shortie. Broad shouldered, too, his made-to-measure suit sitting on his frame like a second skin, hiding nothing. Not that he had anything to be ashamed of. He looked at the peak of fitness from the way he walked across the office. No, swaggered, Rick corrected himself, grudgingly admitting that, along with the short cropped dark hair that fairly bristled with intelligence, the overall impression was of contained strength, of a big cat stalking through the jungle, a polar bear surveying his arctic home, a silverback gorilla marking his –

"Rick."

He came back from the wilds of his imagination, realising Maggie had spoken to him. "What?"

Maggie leaned closer. "Close your mouth. You look like a goldfish." She chuckled. "You keep that up and I'll be thinking you want to sleep with him."

He glared at her but she only smiled.

The big man chuckled, holding out a hand. "I'm James Congreve." His eyes, the blue of a summer sky after the rain, twinkled just a little.

"Rick Castle."

They shook, warmly on Congreve's part, somewhat warily on Rick's, each holding just a little longer than necessary, testing their grip and studying each other.

"James's the art expert," Maggie put in. "What he doesn't know isn't worth knowing."

The man-mountain put his hand in the small of her back, leaning down to speak in her ear. "Now you're just flattering me."

Rick pushed the irrational flash of jealousy back down into the pit of his stomach, and he plastered a smile onto his face. "So … Congreve. Like the playwright," he commented.

"A distant ancestor, at least according to my father."

"Really."

"Mmn."

Maggie lifted one eyebrow, but only said, "James is going to try and help."

"Nice of you."

"Well, anything for Maggie."

She smiled at Congreve, then looked back at Rick. "Where are the others?"

"Kate's talking to someone in Robbery, Ryan and Esposito are out." He sounded short, even to him.

"O-kay." She enunciated the two syllables clearly. "You want us to go away until you're in a better mood or do you think you could drag yourself out of whatever's bothering you in the next couple of minutes?"

He couldn't help it. He shook his head, his lips curving wryly. "Sorry. Late night."

"Must be." She perched on the edge of the desk. "Anyway, we'll wait." She glanced at the watch on her wrist. "Only not too long. I've got another appointment with Mackinnon's."

He raised his eyebrows. "You didn't say that at breakfast."

"I didn't know. I got a call just after you left. A lunchtime chat." She didn't do the air-quotes, but it was a close run thing.

"They called it that?"

"Mmn."

"Where?"

"Figaros."

"Nice food."

"I don't think I'm likely to be eating much. I got the feeling they've been considering the matter over the weekend."

"You don't think they're planning on cutting you loose, do you?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

"Well, if they do, you know Black Pawn would scoop you up in a flash."

"And work with Gina?"

Rick smiled. "Well, with any luck, it won't get as far as that. I'd be willing to bet they're seeing sense now, and will back you to the hilt."

"I really don't want it to get that far, Rick."

"No, of course not. Oh, I didn't say, but I –" He stopped. "What are you doing?" This last he spoke to Congreve, who had wandered to the murder board and was studying it intently.

"This is fascinating." Congreve stared at the photo of Stanford. "And this is the victim?"

"I couldn't say." Rick very deliberately moved so he blocked the other man's view. "We're in the middle of a murder investigation, which makes this confidential."

"My apologies." Congreve put up his hands in the classic surrender pose. "But I am here to help, you know."

"And we're grateful," Kate said, striding into the room.

Maggie made the introductions. "James Congreve, Detective Kate Beckett."

"Mr Congreve, any help you can give us would be helpful," Kate said.

"Please, call me James. And the truth is, I've actually been doing some research since Maggie's call last night. Talked to a few old friends. A couple I even got out of bed."

"James, I hope you didn't call in too many favours," Maggie scolded.

"Why not?" He smiled. "Like I said, anything for you."

Rick pushed down the slight feeling of nausea at this big man making puppy dog eyes at his friend. Any moment now he was likely to roll over and beg to have his tummy rubbed.

"This way," Kate said, her eyes betraying her amusement at Rick's expression as she led the way into the meeting room.

James motioned to the table. "May I?"

"Go ahead."

He smiled at her, his blue eyes twinkling a little, before reaching into his briefcase and pulling out a very slim, very expensive laptop.

"If he's put together a presentation, I think I might throw up," Rick muttered to Kate.

She merely pointed to a chair. "Sit."

He grumped himself down, ignoring the various looks he was getting.

Congreve settled himself, then looked at Kate. "The artworks Maggie described ... do you have a picture I can see?"

Kate held up the file she'd snagged from her desk on the way past. "Here. They're not clear, but it's the best our techs could do in the way of enhancing the images. They did manage to bring up a couple more items, though."

He took it from her, opening it and laying it flat on the table. Then, to everyone's surprise, he reached into his pocket and took out a spectacle case. Still studying the photos, he slid a pair of rectangular, steel framed glasses onto his nose.

"At least he isn't _that_ perfect," Rick muttered, then winced as Kate kicked him.

Congreve looked up at Maggie over the lenses and smiled. "Age," he said. "It happens to all of us. Except you."

"I wouldn't say that." She laid her fingers on the back of his hand.

Rick once again felt that burn of jealousy, only this time he had a moment to think about it as Congreve went back to the print-outs. He had to admit, even to himself, he was having a hard time seeing Maggie being so friendly to another man, but he couldn't understand why. It wasn't as if he wanted Maggie in his bed. If it was offered, maybe he'd ... but she was his oldest friend. His _best_ friend, whom he told everything to. So perhaps he'd feel this way about anyone she was close to, and it was about him wanting all of her attention and not just half. Not that it made him feel any better seeing her being … well … _courted_, for want of a better word. Even if she didn't seem to know this educated ape was doing it.

"Ah." Congreve broke the silence with a satisfied sigh. "Yes."

Maggie sat forward. "I was right?"

"You were right," he confirmed.

"Then maybe you'd let the rest of us into the secret," Rick said, his irritation showing like lace on a petticoat.

Kate lifted an eyebrow at him, then turned back to Congreve. "What can you tell us?"

As if to counter her question, he asked one of his own. "What do you know about 1963?"

"Well, I wasn't born yet, if that's what you're implying."

Congreve laughed. "Never."

Damn it, now he was flirting with Kate. Rick felt his teeth grinding together.

"James." This was Maggie, tapping her watch.

"Ah, yes. My apologies." He opened his laptop, keeping it turned away from them for the moment. "The summer of 1963. The height of the flower power generation. Kennedy was still alive, at least for a few more months, and people thought the world was going to end, not with a whimper, but in the explosion of a nuclear war. It was also one of the hottest summers of the decade, and blackouts were common. It's also the year the old Penn Station was demolished."

Rick stirred. "That was a disgrace. It was a beautiful building."

"I agree."

"You do?" Rick was surprised.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" For a big man, Congreve could do ingenuous quite well.

"Stop it," Maggie ordered. "The pair of you."

Congreve bowed his head, but his lips twitched. "Anyway, what most people don't know is that Penn Station had a number of vaults beneath it, used to store valuables en route from one state to another. Or just out of prying eyes of the IRS and the FBI. One of these, it was rumoured, held a king's ransom in artworks, stolen to order over more than two decades."

"Who for?" Kate wanted to know.

"That was even less than a rumour. More a suggestion. But it was supposed to be the boss of one of the top crime families at the time."

"A name?"

"That I was unable to deduce. I can't find any reference to a particular person, although your records might be more forthcoming."

"We can try." She looked out into the bullpen. "Damn. I'd forgotten they were out." She shook her head. "Okay. I'll start the search when we've finished." Indicating the pictures, she added, "Please, go on."

"Thanks. Oh, by the way, the only reference I could find to the family was something obscure about a diamond stick pin."

"I'll bear that in mind."

Congreve nodded. "Well, as I said, Maggie was right." He turned the laptop around so they could see the screen, showing the same picture as the one they'd been shown the night before. "The painting does indeed appear to be the Rokeby Medusa."

"I gave them a very short history lesson in it, James," Maggie said.

"Then I won't go into details. Except to say that mention of the Medusa has turned up over the years, at least until 1912, when Baron Rothschild wrote to a friend about seeing it in a private collection. He also mentioned a bronze horse, various marble statues …" He tapped the photos spread out on the desk. "Very much like the items you can make out here. All in all, though, I have to say that they simply back up my conclusion. This is part of the Penn Station theft."

Rick was interested, despite himself. "Theft?"

Congreve nodded, touching the pad on the laptop and changing the image. Now it showed a newspaper article. "I found this in the archives of the Ledger, dated 17 August 1963."

_Penn Station Break-In_, the short article was headed.

"I can't quite …" Kate was craning her head to try and read the rest.

"Let me." Congreve adjusted his glasses and started to read, his smooth voice pleasant to listen to. "_Police were called to Penn Station early this morning to investigate a break-in at the empty building, due for demolition in the next few months. Intruders taking advantage of the blackout had forced the security gates, although police have been unable to confirm what, if anything, was stolen from the site itself. However, this reporter has spoken to the night watchman who was on duty at the time, and he alleges that a number of large trucks were seen in the vicinity, and although he was bound and gagged he is sure that the thieves had spent a considerable amount of time removing items from the vaults beneath the Station._" He raised his eyes to look at them over the top of his spectacles, something that appeared to be a habit. "This was down on page 12, and I wasn't able to find anything in the way of a follow-up."

"You think it was buried on purpose?" Maggie wondered aloud.

"Well, I would have thought there was some scope for investigative journalism, but …" He paused.

"James, what did you do?"

He looked smug, reminiscent of a certain writer not a million miles away. "Well, I happen to know the son of the then-owner of the Ledger, and he was one of those whom I woke up last night."

"And?"

"After a lot of cajoling I got him to admit he remembered his father talking about the incident, at least when he'd had more than enough to drink, and the couple of times my friend pressed him on it he admitted he was persuaded not to chase the story."

"Did he say who by?" Kate asked.

"No. His father always refused to say anything more, only adding that it was more than his life was worth."

"Someone nefarious, obviously," Maggie said.

He smiled. "I love it when you use literary words like that."

She grinned back.

Rick had been thinking, and now he said, "Blackout?"

Congreve chuckled. "Maggie said you were very quick. Yes, there's the rub."

"Sorry, but I think I've missed something," Kate said.

"How did they know there was going to be a blackout?" Rick asked. "In the article, it talked about how they took advantage of it."

"Exactly." Congreve touched the pad again, and the article changed, even smaller than the first. _Vandals Responsible for Latest Power Failure._ "Same edition."

"Vandals. Right," Rick scoffed. "Very convenient."

"And highly unlikely to be a coincidence," Congreve agreed.

"Okay," Kate said, the furrow between her eyebrows signaling her mind was working. "So the blackout was a diversion, cover for their real reason. But it still doesn't explain how this particular truck ended up at the bottom of the Hudson."

"Yes, it does." Rick smirked for perhaps the first time that morning. "Coal barges."

"What?"

"During the sixties there was a fleet of coal barges moored along the wharfs of both the East and Hudson Rivers at one time or another." He leaned forward, getting into the swing of the story. "Say these nefarious types of yours did engineer the blackout, creating confusion as well as keeping the police busy preventing looting. But by that same token, the police would stop any trucks in case they carried things they shouldn't. So they'd have to get out of the city as quickly as possible. How better than just getting to the waterfront and driving straight onto a barge?"

Kate was nodding slowly. "It could work. They could cross the river, landing almost anywhere. Then they'd just disappear." She gazed at him. "Except one of them sank? That would be a pretty big coincidence."

"They do happen."

Congreve coughed to get their attention. "You might want to see this as well." Again he changed images, this time to an article headlined _Heat Wave Breaks_. "This was the main story that day. The blackout closed the city down from 11.45 pm, but at a little after 4.13 there was a massive storm. Thunder, lightning, and a wind that, according to the article …'_whipped the river into a frenzy_'."

"It sounds like the Ledger of the time tended towards the hyperbolic," Kate commented. "But that could explain the truck going down."

"Can you imagine it, though?" Rick said, staring back into the past before engaging each of them. "You've planned and plotted, making sure every detail was right, then it's time. Boom, you take out the substation and the city's in darkness. Chaos. Only you know exactly what you're doing. You drive to Penn Station, restrain the watch man, get down to the vaults. You're probably overwhelmed by what you find, and for a moment you can't move, just staring at all that treasure."

The others were silent, listening as he built up a picture they could all see.

He went on, "But eventually you gather yourself, and you order your men to start loading the trucks. You supervise, making sure each item is wrapped carefully and lashed down. It takes at least two hours, perhaps three. By the time you've finished and you drive away, there's lightning above, and the rumble of thunder in your ears. You head for the wharf, for the barges that are going to take you and your haul to safety. Maybe you drive straight on, maybe you're lifted by crane, one per barge, but it's already starting to rain as you leave the relatively sheltered calm and head out into the river. Dawn's breaking, but you can't tell, the sky is so dark. Then it starts – the wind. You're on the lead boat, desperately trying to hold on, but you're looking back, watching the waves pounding over the bows of the others until suddenly one of them isn't there anymore. You search the water frantically, calling in vain for the men who were with the truck, but there's silence, broken only by the rain, and the thunder, and the wind."

He stopped, finally returning to the present. "Or something like that," he added.

"I feel like I should be applauding," Congreve said quietly.

"Please, don't encourage him," Kate said, but still finding herself impressed by the story.

"He really doesn't need it," Maggie put in.

Rick grinned.

Congreve exhaled heavily. "Well, whatever happened, a truck containing some very valuable pieces ended up at the bottom of the river. Unlike the others." He began flipping through photos, some obviously from catalogues, others more grainy, as if they were taken surreptitiously, by telephoto lens or some such. "Pieces have been turning up for years since then, but the really important items ... they've not been seen. Which is unusual, particularly in the art world." He stopped on the image of the Medusa again.

"Why's that?" Kate asked.

"We're a fairly close knit community. Everyone knows what the other collector has, sometimes with awe but more often with avarice." He smiled. "And the truth is, these rumours I mentioned ... they've been circulating for years. Certain items have occasionally been sold with ... shall we say ... questionable provenance, but the buyers haven't been all that scrupulous themselves." There was just the impression of a sigh. "For far too many in the art world, it is the owning that's important." He touched the screen gently, almost caressing the Medusa. "There are some who would keep the Mona Lisa locked in a vault, never to look at her, just to say she was theirs."

"The Mona who?" Rick asked, then grunted as Maggie's elbow this time found its way to his solar plexus.

"Ignore him," she advised. "He's not the Philistine he pretends to be."

"Sometimes I wonder," Kate added quietly, but asked Congreve, "Are you sure about all this?"

"Positive. Like I said, I did some research when Maggie called, but I've been fascinated by the stories all my life." He smiled. "I only wish I could have done more."

"No, you've helped a great deal," Kate said warmly. "At least now I've got an idea as to what those divers stumbled on to."

"Then I'm glad." Congreve closed his laptop, sliding it away. "Would you like me to keep digging? As I said, we're close knit. It's quite possible someone has heard about these pieces having been found."

Kate shook her head. "No, I can't ask you to do that. You're not police, and I couldn't allow you to get involved in anything that might be dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

"One man's dead, another's missing."

"Then surely it's all the more important to catch these criminals." He stood up, and suddenly there seemed to be a lot less space in the room. "And I won't be doing anything more than keeping my ear to the ground."

"As long as it isn't anything more than that."

He smiled, reminding Rick of something predatory he'd seen on TV not that long before. Something poisonous, with big sharp fangs. "I promise to keep in touch."

Maggie glanced at her watch. "Sorry, but I have to go."

Kate nodded. "I'll see you out."

Congreve looked at Rick. "It was nice to have met you. I really must read one of your novels."

They shook again, and Rick wondered if the art man was deliberately trying to break his hand. "My pleasure," he said, trying to get the circulation back into his fingers again without anyone seeing.

Kate accompanied them to the elevator, stopping her friend before she stepped inside with a hand on her arm. "Maggie, do you have a second?"

"Sure." She looked back at Congreve who was holding the doors open. "You'd better go. I'll talk to you later."

He shook his head. "I'll wait downstairs for you."

"Oh, okay." The doors closed and Maggie turned to Kate. "What's the problem?"

"Look, I don't know if Rick told you, but he asked me to help."

"Help?"

"With Harrison."

Maggie felt her cheeks flame. "I didn't think he'd said anything."

"He only gave me the bare bones, I'm sure," Kate went on quickly, "but I wanted to check with you first. Do you want me to look into him? The one who's accusing you?"

"I ... I don't know."

"Rick said you're innocent."

"I am."

"Then let me help. Friend to friend."

Maggie smiled. "Friend?"

"Of course."

"You know, I don't exactly have many of them,"

"Yes, you do."

Maggie closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them there was relief shining bright. "Thanks, Kate. I ... thanks."

"No problem."

"Beckett." It was Montgomery, standing in his doorway.

"I have to go," Kate said. "But I'll see what I can find out."

"Thanks, Kate. I mean it." The elevator doors opened again, and she stepped inside. "You know, you're too good for him," she said enigmatically as they closed.

Kate glanced into the bullpen where Rick was making notes on the murder wall in his best handwriting, but she headed for Montgomery's domain instead.

"You wanted me, sir?"

He looked up from his desk, piled high with paperwork. "Yes. What did you get from the art expert?"

Kate went over the details, succinctly and clearly, finishing with, "...which gives us a lot more avenues for investigation."

"Good. Now hand it over to Robbery."

"Sir?"

"Hand it over to Robbery. This is going to be their case from now on."

Kate took a deep breath, trying to stop the surge of adrenalin. "Sir, I've kept them apprised of the situation but –"

"Then they're up to speed."

Kate stared at him. "But there's a dead body in the morgue. I don't think –"

Montgomery must have had other things on his mind, because he interrupted her. "Does Dr Parrish say it was murder?"

"Not as such, but Stanford sustained wounds that probably contributed to his death."

He sat back in his chair. "Do you know what I'm working on?" he asked.

Kate wasn't phased by the apparent non-sequitur. "No, sir." She'd tried to read the file directly in front of him upside down, just like Castle did, but it seemed to be a list of numbers with notations in the Captain's handwriting down the side.

"Budgets. We're all tightening our belts, and I can't afford to be seen to give you extra time on something that only _might_ be a homicide. Pass it to Robbery, and if they come up with anything different we can take another look."

Kate resisted the temptation to lean on his desk. "Sir, just a day. Twenty-four hours. We're looking for Osaki, Stanford's college room-mate. They dived together for years, and there's no reason to believe they didn't this time."

"No reason, maybe. But no proof either." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Kate, but there's nothing I can do. I've already given you more leeway than I strictly should have. Pack up your wall and –"

"Beckett." Karpowski stuck her head through the open doorway. "Ryan's on the phone."

"Can't it wait?" Montgomery said, his tone laced with asperity.

"I don't think so. Clyde Osaki's body has just turned up."

Kate didn't wait for permission, but ran to her desk, picking up her phone. "Where?"

Ryan's voice was echoing slightly, as if he was in a tunnel. _"Caught in a fisherman's net. Nearly gave the guy a heart attack. He called the Coastguard, they recognised the face. They're bringing him ashore now." _He paused for dramatic effect.

"And?" Kate prompted, unable to wait. "Was he murdered?"

"_Well, either he had a really bad shaving accident, or someone else cut his throat."_

Kate felt the thrill of the chase pulsing through her and looked back at Montgomery. "Sir?" she asked.

He nodded. "Go. Go. Looks like it's your lucky day, if not Osaki's."

"Yes, sir."

"And catch the bastard, will you?" he added.

"My pleasure, sir." She spoke into the phone. "Where are you?"

"_West side, just above the Battery."_

"I'll be right there." She hung up and strode out of the office, smiling grimly.

Rick was already waiting by the elevator, holding her coat ready for her. "Kate," he said, his eyes sparkling as he helped her into it.

"You heard?"

"Oh, yes." One finger hovered over the call button. "Shall we?"

"Definitely."

He smiled and stabbed down.


	7. Chapter 7

"I'd say life is definitely extinct." Rick looked down at the body lying on the tarpaulin, resembling a beached seal more than a man in black neoprene. The head was tipped down onto the chest, initially hiding the cause of death.

"Your expertise is astounding," Perlmutter said scathingly from his position on his knees by the corpse.

Kate glared at Rick briefly then went down onto her heels. "We're sure it's Osaki?"

Esposito nodded. "DMV photo matches."

"What about his equipment?"

The detective gestured into a corner. "The owner of the boat took it off him. The mask's gone, but it looks like the air hose was cut through."

"Get CSU to go over it. I doubt they'll find anything but you never know."

"On it."

She looked down at the corpse. "Time of death?" she asked the ME.

Perlmutter lifted his head. "It's difficult to be precise," he said, squinting against the feeble sunshine. "The water's cold, which delays decomposition, but the lack of putrefaction, accompanied by the passing of rigor … I'd say he probably died at or around the same time as your other vic."

"Was he killed _then_ dumped?" Kate wanted to know.

"I won't know until I get him back on my slab, but there's the remains of foam in what's left of his trachea." He leaned forward, tilting the head back to show the gaping hole in the skin of the throat. "See?"

Rick glanced at the bone showing amidst the paleness of cut veins and arteries devoid of blood, and wished he hadn't had that second Danish. He looked away quickly.

Kate suppressed a smile. Sometimes she just couldn't tell what would turn his stomach. Still, even she felt a little queasy as Perlmutter pressed on the dead man's chest, producing more pink tinged foam. "So he was killed in the water."

Perlmutter nodded. "When his throat was cut he aspirated water into his lungs."

"So it's a toss up whether he actually drowned or died from blood loss," Rick put in, having steeled himself and turned back.

"The same result, either way."

"And the other injuries?" Kate nodded at the left hand, missing the thumb and most of the first two fingers.

"Motor boat," Perlmutter said succinctly. "Maybe even the fishing boat." He lifted the arm. "You can tell by the jagged nature of the wound. The throat was sliced cleanly, probably from left to right, and from behind." He almost sounded admiring. "Whoever did it was pretty strong – the cut's almost to the spinal column."

"Especially if they got through the air hose too." She mused for a moment. "Can you tell me anything about the murder weapon?"

Perlmutter shrugged. "Ka-Bar, maybe, or a diver's knife. Could even be the common or garden kitchen variety. I might be able to give you something better after the autopsy."

"Thanks, Doctor."

"No problem." Perlmutter almost smiled, then climbed to his feet.

"How come he doesn't talk to us like that?" Ryan asked his partner in a quiet aside.

"I think he's in love."

Ryan's eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hairline. "What, with Beckett? Perlmutter?"

"Perlmutter."

"I always thought if it was still breathing, he wasn't interested."

"Thanks, bro," Esposito said. "Now I need to wash my mind out."

Ryan grinned. "No problem. What are partners for?" He glanced at the ME as he supervised removal of the body to the corpse-mobile. "Is he married?"

"No idea." Esposito shrugged. "He isn't exactly forthcoming on his private life."

"That's because he hasn't got one," Rick breathed from behind them. "Personally I think he was hatched."

"In a test-tube," Ryan agreed.

"In a lab," Esposito added.

"By a guy with bolts through his neck." Rick mimed a zombie, hands held out in front of him, face sucked in, then caught Kate looking at him.

"Uh oh, bro," Esposito said, grinning. "Busted."

* * *

The remainder of the day was spent going over the little information they'd already put together, but at least Kate had the satisfaction of telling Montgomery that it was now a definite murder case, and the photo of Clyde Osaki was pinned to the board.

Ryan and Esposito were detailed to go and take a look at Osaki's apartment, but it was less than an hour later when they reported back.

"_Trashed,"_ was Esposito's succinct report.

"How badly?" Kate wanted to know.

"_Everything that's breakable is in lots of little pieces. CSU are __covering everything with black powder, but from the looks they're giving us, they're not hopeful."_

"Anything in the way of a diary, address book, that sort of thing?"

"_Ryan's looking now, but don't hold your breath."_

"Did Osaki have a car?"

"_Yeah. Even older than Stanford's. According to the building super it got towed a week ago because it was parked in front of a fire hydrant."_

"Maybe we'll have better luck with that. Ryan can stay with the apartment, you go and see if there's anything usable inside the car."

"_Already gone."_

Kate put the phone down and sighed mightily.

"We'll get there," Rick said, sitting in his normal chair next to her desk. "We always do." He glanced at his watch surreptitiously.

"Go," she said, flicking her fingers at him. "There's not going to be anything interesting yet. Go home."

He fidgeted slightly. "Well, I _was_ wondering how Maggie had done in her meeting …"

"Howard Harrison." Kate made a quick note on her pad. "I'll run a check."

"Thanks." He still seemed reluctant to leave. "Can I … do anything else?"

"What, about Maggie?"

"Maggie, the case … whatever."

"No. Honestly." She sat back and smiled. "Go home. One of the Robbery guys is coming up in a while to go over a few things, but it's going to be boring. Just the same stuff we already know."

"Maybe someone heard something back in the day," Rick suggested.

"1963?" Kate laughed. "I doubt there's anyone still on the force who was around then."

"True." He sat forward, his elbow on her desk. "But maybe I know one or two on the other side of the line who might have been."

She held up a hand, palm towards him. "I don't want to know. One of these days you're going to end up in big trouble over your contacts."

He grinned. "Some of them are okay," he pointed out as he stood up. "Even if they are crooks."

Kate shook her head. "And they love their mothers and always send birthday cards to their pals in Attica."

"Why, it's like you know them yourself."

She pointedly picked up her pen again. "And you shouldn't."

"They're useful." As she raised her eyebrow at him, he sighed as loudly as he could manage. "You know, you're not the only one with layers. I'll have you know there are a lot of levels to the Castle onion, too."

"And each one of them makes me cry."

* * *

In the cab on his way back to the apartment, Rick pondered what he'd suggested. He'd only been joking at first, but maybe there was something in it after all. From what Congreve had said, the artworks were probably stolen to order in the first place, and stored under Penn Station, either in transit somewhere else, or maybe just in cold storage.

As much as he was loathe to admit it, he understood about the owning part, at least. When he was a kid there had been times when his family had money, then others when it took his mother all her time to scrape together enough cash for them to eat, and he knew she'd often gone without just so he could have books to read, his one great escape.

Then he became moderately successful, then highly successful, until with Derrick Storm he'd gone almost stratospheric, and now his bank account was so healthy it could almost exist as an organism by itself. There was little he couldn't afford, and he indulged when and where he wanted, from top of the line laser tags to investing in the odd arthouse movie.

And gadgets. Lots and lots of gadgets. Half of them still sat in their boxes in one of the cupboards, ripped from their packaging and looked at, the manual flicked through, then put away again until he could find time in his busy schedule to insert tab A into slot B. About once a year Alexis would go through them and make him decide which ones to give to charity, but there always seemed to be more. It didn't matter that they weren't used: it was the owning that was important.

He'd never really been into fine art, but if someone came up to him and said they could steal the Guggenheim, just for him …

He paid his fare and walked into his own building, waving at Eduardo and heading up the stairs, giving himself a bit more time to think.

Most of the people he knew in the underbelly of New York society weren't into pictures or sculpture either, at least as far as he knew, but one or two might be able to point him in the right direction. Paulo, perhaps (although strictly speaking he was more a jewellery expert) or maybe Duncan Monaghan. Rick smiled to himself. Yes, Duncan. He was the one to start with.

He was already dialling as he reached his floor, his cellphone wedged between his ear and shoulder as he fiddled with his keys. He wasn't surprised when the call was picked up and went straight to a message service.

"Richard Castle," he said letting himself into the apartment and feeling a warm glow as he saw Maggie cuddled up on the sofa, a blanket around her knees. A yellow legal pad was balanced on her lap, but she was asleep. "Same number. Let's catch up on old times," he finished, then hung up.

Tucking the phone back into his pocket, he leaned over the back of the couch. "Hey."

Maggie opened her eyes. "Wha … huh?"

He chuckled. "Good dream?"

"I don't remember." She sat up, the pad falling to the floor, and rubbed her palms over her face, pushing her fingers up through her spiky black hair. "Sorry. I must have dozed off."

"What are you apologising for?" he asked, heading for the kitchen area, tugging off his overcoat and jacket and letting them fall onto one of the easy chairs. "Did it help?"

"What, the nap?" Maggie stretched her arms up towards the ceiling, flexing her fingers. "Not particularly." She tossed the blanket onto the cushions and stood up, picking the pad up from the floor and dropping it with the throw.

Rick could see the top page was covered with Maggie's somewhat spiky writing, but there were a lot of heavy crossings out. "Not been inspired, then?" He nodded towards the pad.

Maggie sighed deeply, staring at the words. "No. It's like swimming in treacle."

"Then maybe a shot of caffeine would help."

"Good idea."

As he poured the coffee grounds into the machine, Rick said, "You know, it will get better."

"What will?" Maggie asked in turn, ambling towards him and tugging the hairy cardigan she was wearing around her.

"Worrying that what you've written someone else has already done." He added, "Close your mouth unless you intend catching flies."

Maggie's jaw snapped shut with an audible click. "How did you know?"

"I know you." Three words, simple and obvious as far as he was concerned.

She had to laugh. "I suppose you do."

"But not James Congreve." He switched on the coffee maker then turned to look at her square in the face. "Who is he, Mags?"

"James? Oh, he's an old friend."

"Really. You never mentioned him."

She fiddled with the knives in the block. "I'm sure I did."

"No, you didn't."

She looked up. "Oh. Thought I had." She shrugged.

"How did you meet him?"

"I told you, I was researching a book." Now she sounded on the defensive. "Why?"

"No reason." He opened the top cupboard and took out two mugs, placing them with a little more force than necessary on the worktop. "It's just … I thought I knew everyone you know."

"Apparently not." She sighed. "Look, he gave me some really excellent information. And we stayed in touch."

"He looks like your main protagonist from that book."

"You think?"

"Tall, blue-eyed, built like a brick outhouse … yeah, I'd say he does."

Maggie's lips twitched. "Why, Rick, I didn't know you were so attracted to him."

"I'm not. But I can see why you were."

She leaned back against the counter. "You think I'm attracted to him."

"He is to you."

"We're friends."

"Right." He watched the coffee dripping into the glass jug, each splash sounding very loud. "And he wants it to be a lot more than that."

"Oh, for heavens sake."

"Maggie, open your eyes. The guy's in love with you."

"That's ridiculous." She shook her head. "There's nothing like that between us."

"Has there ever been?"

"Does it matter?"

"Should it?"

"Are you like this with Kate?

"I don't know what you mean."

She glared at him, but only said, "Anyway, you haven't asked what Mackinnon wanted."

So she wanted to change the subject. He was okay with that. Opening a cupboard he lifted out an open packet of choc chip cookies. "Okay. What did Mackinnon want?"

"They want me to attend a press thing."

"When?"

"Tomorrow night." Maggie sighed again. "To promote my book."

"The one that idiot –"

"That's the one. Stan thinks if I bluster through it, nobody will take the allegations seriously." She sighed again, heavier this time. "It's either that or pay the bastard off."

Rick shook his head vehemently. "That's just admitting there's something to pay him off about." He held out the pack to her, but she shook her head.

"I know, but I'm beginning to think it would be easier."

"It's what he wants, Mags. Money. There's no other reason for him to be lying like this."

"You think he is?"

"Okay." Putting the cookies down on the counter, he took her arm and steered her towards the sofa. "Sit."

"What?"

"Sit."

Maggie narrowed her eyes but did as she was told, perching on the edge. "Well?" she asked, her hands clasped in her lap.

He couldn't help smiling – she looked like she was in the principal's office, an occurrence all too familiar to the both of them from college days. He lowered himself next to her. "Maggie, I believe you. I know you didn't plagiarise anyone. And do you know how I know? Because I know you. I know how you write. And I'm pretty sure if we look at this thing seriously, we'll see it's the other way around. That this Harrison stole parts of _your_ book and is trying to cash in on it."

She blinked, twice, hard. "Really?"

"What, did you think I thought you were lying?"

"No, but –"

"But nothing." He put his hand on hers, feeling the tension in her fingers. "Maggie Maguire, you're a super talented woman. Sometimes I think you're better than me."

"Only sometimes?"

"When I'm feeling depressed."

Her lips twitched and he felt encouraged. "That often."

"Mags, you know what you are. And you damn well know you're not a plagiarist."

"I'm not sure I could even spell it."

"You spell better than me."

"That wouldn't be hard."

He grinned. "That's better. I know you're going to be okay if you're insulting me."

"It's just …" She swallowed. "Will you all come with me? You know how much I hate these things, and if you're there maybe you can deflect some of the attention onto yourself. You're damn good at that."

"Now I'm sure I'm being insulted, but … no problem." He laughed. "If you like I'll even turn up naked. That would get their attention."

"Not sure that's quite necessary. But thanks." She looked relieved beyond measure.

"Besides, it might be fun. I can make up all sorts of stories about you to tell the press." His cellphone trilled.

"Don't you dare."

"Although come to think of it, there are some true ones I'm pretty sure they haven't heard …" He leaped to his feet to get out of the way of her pinching fingers and picked up his jacket, his phone falling out onto the floor.

As he leaned down to pick it up Maggie said, "One of these days you're going to break that."

"It's already happened. All too often." He checked the display. _Number withheld_. He let it go to voicemail.

"What's that all about?" she asked, tucking one foot under her opposite knee.

"Hang on a second and I'll tell you." The new message icon was flashing, and he accessed it quickly. Listening, he started to look insufferably smug.

"Rick?"

"Duncan Monaghan," he said as the message ended and he slid the phone back into his pocket.

"Uncle Duncan?" She looked surprised.

"Uncle … damn, I'd forgotten." He honestly had, too. Some distant relation of Maggie's, or at least of her mother. "I thought he might be able to help with the case."

Maggie nodded. "Good call. And I suppose we can't help our relatives."

"That we can't. Look at mine." He chuckled. "We all have skeletons in our family closet."

"But we're crime writers. We actually let them out to play."

"Very true." He glanced at the percolator, noting it had finished … percing. "Look, I know I promised coffee, but Duncan's message said half an hour."

"That's fine." She stood up. "I am perfectly capable of getting my own."

"Great." He shrugged back into his jacket then paused in the act of picking up his overcoat. "Do you … want to come?"

Maggie shook her head. "No. Not this time. He'll want to talk about family, about how he could get my father rubbed out for me if I only say the word … you won't get the information you want if I'm around."

"Okay. As long as you're sure."

"I'm sure. I might even try doing some writing. Since I've been reliably informed I'm very talented."

"That you are." He headed for the door. "And I'll bring back pizza."

"Sounds good." She added quickly as the door closed, "No olives," but wasn't sure he'd heard.


	8. Chapter 8

Duncan Monaghan would have been grievously offended if he'd been spoken of in the same breath as the Westies, the Irish Mafia out of Hell's Kitchen. He considered himself a private contractor, even if he did on occasion get drunk with Finn Rourke.

He owned a string of restaurants, some in his name, others not, but all of them paying into his very nice retirement fund, thank you very much. Not that he showed any sign of retiring – his shock of thick hair might be silver, and the lines on his face gave more away about his age than his addiction to moisturiser, but Duncan Monaghan had his finger on the pulse of each of his businesses. Legal or otherwise.

Maggie had introduced Rick to her 'uncle' some fifteen years before, warning him not to believe a word of any of his tall stories. Rick and Duncan seemed to hit it off, and there had been times over the next decade and a half when the author would consult the not-quite gangster on matters of etiquette, repaying with signed copies of his books.

Rick swung the door open on _Elysium_, and had to stop for a moment, overwhelmed by the scent of fresh-baked bread. Each of Duncan's places had a theme, and this one was a bakery, down to the old stone querns and flour sacks on the walls. Not that the decoration mattered. It was the food that brought people in, in this case rolls, loaves and other such confections to die for, either hot across the counter or sit down next door.

Duncan Monaghan, waiting for him, laughed. "You want I should wait a while?"

Pulling himself back from the brink, Rick smiled. "It's the smell. I don't care if it's real or piped in … there's something about it that makes me think of my childhood. And my mother couldn't bake to save her life."

"Oh, it's real. I don't use any of that synthetic crap pumped into the air. Eighteen hours a day, seven days a week … that's the only way you get decent, real bread."

The people waiting to take away their orders murmured agreement.

Taking one last, deep lungful, Rick held out his hand. "Duncan."

"Rick." The old man grinned, showing even white teeth that might have been his own. "Shall we sit?" He indicated the restaurant proper, through the door at the side, where even before the evening rush had taken hold most of the tables were taken.

"Sure." Rick allowed himself to be led through, noting at least four people of his acquaintance, all of whom waved at him to join them. He shook his head. _Another time_, he mouthed. _Busy_.

"You're popular," Duncan said, easing himself down into a chair in his private booth, right at the back, where he could see everyone and every thing.

"They all want me to sign their copies of _Heat Wave_. And talking of which …" He fished inside his overcoat, bringing out a hardback copy. "Personally annotated. As always."

Duncan took it, careful not to damage the dustcover. "I've read it already, of course, but it'll go with the rest." He eyed his companion. "You do know my collection's likely to be worth a lot more once you're dead."

Rick paused in the act of taking off his coat. "Is that a threat?"

"Are you still friends with Maggie?" Duncan countered.

"Yes."

"Then no, it's not."

It was a game they played, perhaps too close to the knuckle sometimes for Rick. He knew the stories, particularly how the man in front of him had earned enough to open his first eatery, that more than one of the bodies in New York's rivers Esposito had talked about might be from his early years. He couldn't say it didn't matter, but maybe it didn't matter _enough_, not so that he turned all holier-than-thou and refused to talk to the old man. Still, sometimes he couldn't help the feeling that Duncan might not be joking quite as much as he hoped.

Sitting down opposite, he decided to change the subject, saying, "She sends her love, by the way."

"Maggie." Duncan smiled, perhaps honestly for the first time. "Is she in town?"

"Mmn. Staying at my place."

"Why didn't you bring her with you?"

"Because she didn't want you saying you'd kill her father for her. Again."

"That jackass." Duncan shook his head. "Isn't even worth a bullet."

"Look, I agree, but Maggie … it makes her uncomfortable."

Duncan held up a hand. "Okay, okay. I get the message. No talking about whacking him."

"I think she'd appreciate it."

"As long as she realises I'm still going to think about it."

"Just don't do it," Rick advised.

Duncan shrugged, not quite the promise of hands-off Rick really wanted to hear. "Anyway, what can I do for you that you needed to call first?"

Rick sat forward. "Information."

"So what else is new?" Just a trace of his original Irish accent surfaced, and he smiled.

"Not this, actually. What do you know about 1963?"

"Are you asking if I remember it?"

"Certain ... portions of it, yes."

Duncan pondered, then said, "Well, in 1963 I was still a lad, wet behind the ears."

Rick had to smile. "In 1963 you were twenty-five, and already on the ladder to your first million," he countered.

"Who told you that?"

"You did."

The other man laughed. "Perhaps I did. But I'm old, lad, and maybe I forget."

"Duncan, if I'm as fit as you when I get to your age, it'll be a miracle."

"Good clean living, that's the answer."

"Which makes me wonder what the question is," Rick said.

"Me too. So, what do you want to know about 1963?"

"The Penn Station robbery."

Duncan sat back and gazed at the younger man. "Now why has that come up now?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

"I'm ... doing research. Perhaps Nikki Heat will be tracking down the thieves."

"Bullshit."

Rick tried not to smile. "Honestly, I'm just seeing if it'll make a good backdrop to a novel."

"Rick, don't try to kid me. You don't have the experience."

"Duncan –"

"Just tell me."

Rick considered his options for maybe twenty seconds, then said, "We _might_ have some information on some of the works of art."

Duncan smiled, showing a gold tooth had replaced his left canine, and for some reason Rick was put in mind of a shark circling a swimmer.

"Let me guess. You've heard about such priceless works stolen to order and stored under Penn Station," the old man said.

Rick's eyes widened, and felt the metaphorical shark bite. "So it's true."

"That depends. What exactly do you think you know?"

"Rumours," Rick admitted.

"A little more than that, I think."

"Duncan, I'm honestly not sure what I can tell you."

"Then I'm honestly not sure what I know." The old man clicked his fingers and one of the waiters magically appeared.

"Yes, sir, Mr Duncan." Even those four words had more than a hint of an Irish brogue about them.

"My usual, Billy."

"Yes, sir." Billy, probably not much older than Alexis, looked at Rick expectantly. "And you, sir?"

"Well, I …"

"On the house," Duncan interrupted.

"I'm not really hungry."

"Of course you are. You have been since you walked in and smelled the baking." Duncan chuckled then looked up at Billy. "Bring Mr Castle here a Kaiser with fresh cut ham, Roquefort, tomatoes, shredded lettuce, and the dill dressing. And he'll have a tea as well."

"Yes, sir, Mr Duncan." Billy hurried away.

"You've got him well-trained," Rick said, leaning in slightly.

"They're good boys." Duncan settled his hands on the table, lightly clasped, showing the pinky ring with a large emerald in it, something he claimed reminded him of his roots back in Ireland. "Now, while we wait you decide exactly why you want to know about 1963, and you can tell me properly how Maggie is."

Rick nodded, making a mental note not to mention Howard Harrison and his charge of plagiarism. After all, he didn't want him ending up somewhere with his throat cut.

* * *

Kate leaned against her desk and stared at the updated murder board, trying to get into the mind of the killer. Castle had, on more than one occasion, told her that it was all about the story, but to her mind it was about getting to the truth, no matter how tough it might be. A story was what it said, maybe based on fact but glossed over, painted full of tongues, glamorised. The truth might not set you free, but it could lock a man in jail for the rest of his life.

Esposito strolled towards her, holding out a mug. "Here. You look like you need it."

"Thanks." She took the proffered coffee, letting the perfume clear her head. She might have been scathing when Castle had bought the original espresso machine, but there were times when it was the only thing keeping her from being a clock tower sniper. She sipped, her eyes still on the board even as her tastebuds thanked her profusely.

"Nothing jumping out at you?" he asked, his lips twitching. Everyone knew about Kate's obsession with her murder wall, how she waited for it to talk to her.

"Not really."

"I suppose it could all be a wild goose chase."

"Maybe."

"Except your gut's telling you otherwise."

"Too many coincidences," she agreed. Pushing herself upright she stepped closer, tapping the two photos at the top. "Stanford and Osaki were involved in something, and it had to do with sunken treasure. Stanford's death might be considered misadventure, although being chased by someone trying to kill him probably contributed."

"Not a nice way to go," Esposito said, shuddering slightly. He'd had a brush with the Bends once, in a far warmer climate, but there was a decompression chamber close by and his dive buddy had got him to it quickly enough that he'd only begun to feel the effects. Still, it was enough.

"Osaki was murdered, but whether it was over the treasure or something else …"

"Be too much of a coincidence if it was," he pointed out.

"I just feel like we're blundering around in the dark, with only half the story."

"It's still early."

"And two men are dead." She shook her head and deliberately turned her back on the photos. "Ryan not back yet?" she asked, changing the subject.

The other half of what Castle called 'Roach' in his book _Heat Wave _had volunteered to wait in the CSU lab to see if the forensics team had any luck in pulling fingerprints off the wetsuit Osaki was found in.

"Not yet. Jenny rang half an hour ago to remind him they were going out with her parents tonight to dinner and not to be late."

"Parents, huh?" Kate had to smile. "Sounds serious."

"I told him to run for the border, but I don't think he's listening."

"He's in love."

"Not sure that's a good enough excuse for being whipped the way he is."

"One day, Esposito …" For some reason the other detective refused to meet her gaze, and she was about to ask who the lucky lady was, when he was saved by the bell as the phone on his desk rang, and he hurried to answer it.

Kate turned her attention back to the board. So far they knew they were dealing with a murder, but it looked likely they were going to get involved with the robbery at Penn Station as well. If there had actually been one. James Congreve was certain, and Maggie seemed inclined to believe him, although how much of that was mutual attraction Kate wasn't prepared to consider. Still, the evidence did point that way, so maybe once the Robbery detective was assigned they could form a plan of –

"Boss."

She looked over at Esposito, at the grin on his face. "What?"

"We've got a ping."

* * *

"Damn, that's good," Rick said, biting into the crusty roll and chewing happily.

Duncan chuckled. "I can always do you a regular order. We deliver." He took an elegant mouthful of his own ciabatta, stuffed with thin strips of cured beef and provolone cheese.

Rick shook his head and swallowed. "My mother goes on enough as it is about my love handles – if I eat too many more of these she might not just be winding me up."

"I never saw Maggie complaining about them."

"Maggie's … different."

"Special."

"Absolutely."

"Are you sure I can't –"

"No. She'd never forgive you if you did."

"He's a prick."

"Duncan, I'm not going to disagree." Rick put the roll down reluctantly on the plate, giving the old man one hundred percent of his attention. "But her father isn't worth the effort. Honestly."

"I don't know how you didn't hit him."

"I was young. Well, younger. And I respected my elders back then."

"Not so much now, though."

"No, well, I've grown up a bit."

"And if you came face to face with him? Tomorrow, on the street." Duncan leaned forward. "What would you do?"

"Nothing."

"Richard, please. I thought we were being honest here."

Rick took a breath and sighed. "Okay. I'd probably punch his lights out." He added quickly, "But that doesn't mean you can put a hit out on him."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that. This would be entirely personal."

Wiping his fingers on the napkin, Rick said, "You know, you look like someone's uncle, or maybe their grandfather, but sometimes …"

"If you knew the truth it would make your hair curl." Duncan sipped his iced tea. "Now. Why not continue with the honesty, and tell me why you want to know about the Penn Station robbery?"

Rick took another bite of his roll, using the time it took to chew and swallow to think. "Okay," he finally said. "But this is between us."

"Of course."

He glanced around, making sure they weren't overheard. Nobody seemed to be taking any notice of them, but it was better to be safe than sorry. He lowered his voice. "We think we might have come across some of the loot."

Duncan's eyes glittered. "Really?"

"I can't tell you where, or in what context, but we've had expert advice that suggests paintings, some statues, that sort of thing."

"And you came to me … why?"

"Duncan, you were around then. You've already admitted it. And someone in your … line of work would probably have heard about it."

For a long moment the old man gazed at him, possibly calculating the amount per pound he'd get for him, then he nodded slowly. "I suppose I did."

"And?"

"You know about the Five Families," Duncan said, almost like a non-sequitur.

"Of course. Can't be a writer in this city and not know. If I didn't I'd have to hand back my union card." Rick smiled. "Originally seven, they carved up crime in New York and set up The Commission in … what, 1935?"

"1931. It ended a lot of the gang wars that were getting in the way of making real money from the sufferings of others." Duncan might have been joking, but probably not.

"This … ah … isn't to do with them, is it?" Rick asked, feeling a slow burning anxiety in the pit of his stomach. "Because I don't think Kate's going to be too pleased to wake up one morning in a concrete overcoat."

Duncan's eyebrows raised. "Kate?"

"My partner."

A hard look darkened the old man's eyes. "Are you cheating on Maggie?"

"No," Rick insisted. "And there's nothing to cheat on, you know that."

"Mmn."

"Duncan, I promise. I'd never hurt Maggie, on pain of … well, pain. Now, go on with your story. Please?"

"Just make sure you don't. I'd hate for anything to happen to you." There was a tone to his voice that suggested this, at least, wasn't a joke.

"I promise."

"All right." Duncan took a bite of ciabatta, chewing thoughtfully before washing it down, taking so long that Rick began to fidget. Finally he said, "And, to answer your previous question, no. Not the big boys as such. But there were – and are – a lot of minor families, not much more than gangs, really, waiting in the wings, each of them wanting a bigger piece of the pie." He looked down at his plate, as if he was no longer hungry, and pushed it away slightly.

Rick, his own snack forgotten, said, "Go on."

Duncan took a deep breath. "Back in the 1960s it was mainly the Viducci and Malone families. And the way they were fighting … you talk about concrete overcoats, half of modern New York is built on their members. Literally." He was getting into the swing of it now. "They were at risk of becoming extinct, so a truce was arranged, a ceasefire, and it was cemented by the marriage of Vito Viducci to Ariadne Malone in June 1963." He smiled slightly. "Half the Commission were invited. Took place at St John the Devine, and still there weren't enough seats. Then they all went over to Long Island for the reception."

"Were you there?" Rick wanted to know, sensing there was more than just an anecdote in passing here.

"As it happens, yes. I was working for Terry Malone, Ariadne's father, at the time. And before you ask, I'm not giving any details as to the nature of that employment."

"I'll take a wild guess and say it was whatever was asked of you."

"Pretty much. And I knew Ariadne, so I was included as a friend of the family." He shook his head. "Damn, but she was beautiful, decked out in white lace and pearls, her dark hair piled up on her head. Even if she looked miserable as sin about it."

"She wasn't exactly a willing participant?"

"No, not really. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, be the right age and unmarried. Mind, even Vito wasn't that pleased."

"Oh?"

"There were rumours about his ... affiliations, so this was one way of squashing them."

"You mean he was gay?"

Duncan shrugged. "It was the early 60's, what can I say? Nobody was about to admit that. And I think he actually tried to make a go of it. Ariadne was pregnant within six months, so he must have done something right."

"Duncan, as interesting as this trip down memory lane is, I –"

"Sh, I'm just getting to the good bit." He signalled for more tea.

"Fine. But I have a manicurist's appointment at noon tomorrow."

This time the smile actually reached the old man's eyes. "I'll try and keep it short."

"Thanks."

"As I was saying, it was the wedding that was supposed to put an end to the violence, and as such it was sanctioned by those higher up. And as a sign of their magnanimous support and agreement, there were gifts."

Someone walked down Rick's spine. "Gifts?"

"Wedding presents, Rick. From some of the most powerful men this side of the Appalachians. They were said to include statues, jewellery, paintings … And a whole lot of it, too. It was meant to represent the wealth of the families, how they were united against everyone else. It's said even Carlo Gambino sent a necklace of emeralds and diamonds, and a painting of a woman with snakes instead of hair, although why anyone would want that is beyond me."

The Rokeby Medusa ... "I … er … me neither."

"Not that the happy couple were allowed to keep any of it. It went into storage, somewhere safe, somewhere the Feds wouldn't even have a clue that it was there."

"Penn Station."

"Exactly. Not that that was the only stash down there. It's said those lockers had been used for a long time by various of the families, and some of them had died out even before 1963, so nobody was quite sure what was down there."

Rick rubbed his jaw with his thumb. "You know what you're suggesting, don't you? That the theft was an inside job."

"That was for sure the way it was seen. The Viduccis and the Malones blamed each other, and instead of ending the war it just made it intensify. Even Don Carlo couldn't stop it." Duncan looked disgusted. "Stupid _páiste gréine_."

Rick didn't have to know Gaelic to realise he wasn't being complimentary. "What happened?"

"They more or less wiped each other out. Particularly when the Commission washed their hands of them."

"And you?" Rick had to ask. "Did someone try to ..."

"Car bomb." Duncan sighed. "I was driving for Terry and he wanted a paper, so I stopped at a newsstand on 43rd. Otherwise it would've been me in a lot of wet, messy pieces too, instead of just with a broken leg and half my hair singed off."

"Did you retaliate?"

"What do you think?"

"I think I retract the question."

"Good boy," Duncan said, reaching over and patting his hand. "Anyway, by that point I'd had enough, and put it all behind me to start my own business. Not actually being blood the Viduccis left me alone. Although that didn't stop me from sleeping with a gun under my pillow for about the next twelve years. By that point only Ariadne and Vito were still alive, and they retired to a villa somewhere in the south of France with their four kids." He chuckled, but without humour. "Nobody ever did figure out who'd blabbed about the stuff."

Rick shook his head. "How come J … my source didn't know about this?"

"It was our business, Rick. Nobody else's. And we didn't want the Feds digging around in it. So it stayed as rumours."

"Well, those rumours seem to have solidified." Rick shook himself mentally, dragging his imagination back from forty fifty years before to the present day. "Do you know who might have been asking questions about it? Apart from me, that is."

"I haven't heard. I can put a few feelers out if you like, touch some of the people I used to know, see if they've come across anything new."

"Thanks. That would be good."

The fresh tea arrived, and as he put it on the white tablecloth Billy asked, "Will there be anything else, Mr Duncan?"

"No. No, you get off now and go see your mother."

"Yes, sir, Mr Duncan." The young man hurried away.

"His mother's a distant cousin, but she's bed-ridden," Duncan explained quietly. "He's a good lad, eager to please, so I was glad to give him a job."

"You always did look after family."

"I try." The old man twisted the emerald ring. "Although I'm not sure I've done much for you beyond telling you a story."

"I don't know," Rick said. "When I'm writing I need to know the history, what makes people do things the way they do, and right now I know a lot more about the circumstances surrounding the theft. And maybe a couple more leads to follow up on."

Duncan inclined his head. "Then I'm happy I could help."

"Thanks." Rick held out his hand and they shook.

"Any time." He glanced down at the half-eaten roll still sitting on Rick's plate. "Do you want that wrapped for you?"

"No. But I will get a loaf from out front. Maggie will never forgive me if I go back without one of your famous poppy seed plaits." He smiled.

"Fine. And tell them it's on the house."

Rick stood up. "I will." He turned and walked away through the tables, looking back once at the doorway and waving. Duncan waved back with one hand, the other holding his cup as he sipped his tea, surveying his kingdom like a silver-haired lion.

As he ordered the fresh bread, Rick pondered what the old man had told him, and wondered why something was bothering him. Duncan had apparently been honest, even admitting working for the Malones, but whether it was a sin of omission or a downright lie Rick wasn't altogether sure. Still, what he'd said was true – they did have a lot more background on the crime, and even if the robbery was cold, he'd bet his last dollar on there being a connection to the two dead bodies lying in the morgue right now.

Just as the paper-wrapped loaves were passed across the counter his cellphone rang, and grasping the somehow inappropriately warm bread to his chest he tossed a couple of notes down – Duncan might be a friend but he didn't want to feel beholden – and hurried outside.

Tugging his phone from his pocket he checked the caller display. _Beckett_. Smiling he thumbed the respond button. "Kate? I've got some news."

"_Me too."_ There was a pause, then ... "_Well? What do you have?"_

And suddenly he wasn't so sure she was going to be pleased with him having gone behind her back to talk to a man like Duncan Monaghan.


	9. Chapter 9

**A.N.: **My apologies for the delay in getting this latest chapter up - I've got more than one tale on the go, and time can't always stretch to accommodate them all! And this part is dedicated to angellemarcs (my sister under the pen) - happy birthday!

* * *

Alexis pushed the empty pizza boxes into the recycling bin, then scooped the unwanted olives into the food trash. She shook her head. He hadn't listened when Maggie said not to get olives on everything. He'd apologised, but that didn't help. Sometimes he could be so stubborn, so focused on working with Kate Beckett that he forgot other people. Still, Maggie had enjoyed the poppy seed plait, scooping fresh butter onto it like there was no tomorrow.

Rick, temporarily forgiven for not listening, had laughed. "You sure you've got enough on there?" he'd asked.

Maggie had stuck her tongue out at him, then forced a huge chunk into her mouth, her eyes watering slightly as she chewed.

Rick laughed again, then yelped as she pinched him.

It had been fun, Alexis considered. It always was when Maggie was around, what with her telling stories about when she and Dad had been at college together, him accusing her of gilding the lily and her retaliating with even taller tales. Even his coming home with his tail between his legs hadn't soured things that much.

"Kate wasn't happy," he'd said when Maggie enquired why he had such a long face.

"About you going to see Duncan?"

"She said I should have learned my lesson going behind her back, and any information I got from a gangster wasn't going to be admissible in court anyway." He handed the loaves to her. "And don't pick."

She'd looked affronted, snatching her fingers away from the crust and flouncing away when he laughed.

His footsteps hurrying around the corner brought Alexis back to the present.

"Hey, sweetie," he said, buttoning his shirt. "What are you doing up so early?" He crossed to her and kissed her forehead.

"It's a school day, Dad." She indicated her uniform. "And I'm checking through my assignment one last time."

He chuckled. "Right."

"I could ask you the same. About why you're up so early, not if your assignment's ready."

His eyebrows lifted, then the smugness returned. "Beckett and I are going on a little cruise."

She straightened his collar. "Out on the Hudson?"

That had been Kate's bit of news. The trawl through Osaki's financials had paid off with a receipt for a brand new cellphone with GPS capability, and after the usual wait for a court order the provider had come up trumps with a location slap bang in the middle of the river.

"So unless Stanford accidentally lost it on one of his dives, it looks like Maggie was right," Kate had said, barely pausing in her haranguing of him.

Rick couldn't help grinning, even though he knew she couldn't see him. "Admit it, she's good."

"I never said she wasn't." There was a slight pause. "Well? Do you want to come?"

"Is the Pope Catholic?"

"I take it that means yes."

"Definitely yes."

"Then meet me at the Harbour Patrol office tomorrow morning at 6.30 am."

"That early?" he'd protested.

"We can't dive at night, Castle, but that doesn't mean the bad guys can't."

"Okay," he agreed grudgingly. "6.30."

"And you're coming on one condition."

"Name it."

"You don't go behind my back again to a source."

"I promise. Cross my heart."

"Are you?"

He'd chuckled. "Honestly. People are looking at me like I'm going crazy."

"I'd say they might be right."

Back in the present Rick headed for the coffee maker, glad to see his daughter had been well brought up and it was full. "Not the kind of cruise I had been hoping for, but ... baby steps."

"So no bikinis and drinks with little umbrellas in them."

"Bikinis, no." He shuddered. "Not unless you like frostbite as an accessory. But I might take a flask of Margueritas with me."

"I'd have thought long underwear was a better idea."

"Already wearing them," Rick promised. He sucked down half a mug of coffee then glanced at his watch. "Gotta go. The cab'll be here in a minute."

"I'm surprised Maggie didn't want to come," Alexis said, holding out his coat.

"She's still asleep." He'd looked in on her before showering, and from the heap in the middle of the bed she wasn't just sleeping, she was hiding too. "I didn't want to disturb her. It's the best thing right now." He slid his arms into the sleeves and turned to look at his daughter.

"Don't forget the book thing tonight," Alexis warned, his scarf and gloves in her hands. "She'll kill you if you do."

"I won't forget." He smiled and dropped another kiss onto her cheek. "See you later, pumpkin. Have a good day at school."

"You too."

He grinned and waved, heading out of the front door, letting it close behind him.

Alexis shook her head. Sometimes bringing up a parent could be so difficult.

* * *

"Are you sure about this?" Ryan asked. "It looks pretty cold in there." He thrust his free hand deeper into his coat pocket.

Esposito checked his airway again, then looked up. "I'm sure. And we need to find the truck."

"Yeah, but they can do that." He nodded towards the Harbour Patrol divers in the other boat.

"You know me. I like to be in at the kill." He spat into his mask before leaning over the side and rinsing it in the murky water of the Hudson River.

Ryan grimaced slightly. "Do you have any idea what sort of things you could catch doing that?"

Esposito grinned. He knew his friend was concerned for his safety, as any good partner should be, but maybe this was a little excessive. "I'll be fine," he said in a manly tone, adjusting the lipstick camera on the side.

"I know that." Ryan was blustering now.

"Sure you do."

The divers going down to search had invited Esposito to join them, and he'd jumped at the chance, and was now sitting on the edge of the small RIB, while Ryan – not intending to let his partner out of his sight for longer than absolutely necessary – was holding onto the wheel housing and telling himself he wasn't going to throw up.

"You just do what they tell you, okay?" the Irish detective said.

Esposito nodded, fixing his mask into place. "About as much as I do what you tell me."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

On the larger Harbour Patrol boat, Rick grinned and looked at Kate. "They're like some old married couple," he commented.

"They're partners."

"Or maybe it's something else." Rick's eyebrows twitched. "Something they're not telling us."

"I wouldn't go suggesting that sort of thing where they can hear," Kate warned. "Or they might set Jenny onto you."

"Wouldn't that be cruel and unusual punishment?"

"Appropriate, I'd say." She smiled slightly. "Anyway, I thought you'd want to be down there with them, checking out the wrecks."

Rick shook his head. "Too cold for me. I'll leave it to the experts."

"Good idea."

Over on the RIB, Esposito pulled his mouthpiece into place and held up one hand, his thumb and first finger shaped into an 'o', the symbol for OK. The dive master nodded, checked his watch, then indicated they were good to go by giving a thumbs up.

Esposito rolled backwards over the edge, the other three divers in his boat doing the same, and Ryan had to grab for the wheel house to steady himself.

"Five'll get you ten he gets wet before the end of the day," Rick said jovially.

"Make it twenty and you're on."

"Done." Rick considered getting the note out of his wallet, but decided against it, since he really didn't want to get frostbite. "Why _are_ we here?" he asked. "Not that I'm complaining, of course. The company is excellent, even if the surroundings leave a lot to be desired." He glanced around. The wharfs seemed a distance behind him, while across the river was yet more of the same.

"Moral support," Kate said succinctly. "And I want to be on hand when we don't find anything." She pulled her knitted hat a little lower over her ears with her black leather-gloved hands.

"That's a bit negative, isn't it?" He wished he had the nerve to wear that kind of headgear, instead of letting his hair toss in the biting wind.

"You're lucky I let you come at all, after the stunt you pulled yesterday," she pointed out, obviously still annoyed about it.

"It'll bear fruit. You wait and see."

"Unlike this."

"You really think that? You think Congreve got it wrong?" He sounded almost hopeful.

"You really don't like him, do you?" She turned to look into his blue eyes, half-closed against the cold.

"I didn't say that."

"Castle, your body language was shouting."

He didn't really want to answer, but found his lips moving anyway. "I just don't think he's good enough for Maggie."

Her eyebrows raised, albeit hidden under the hat. "Not good enough? Who are you, her father?"

"God, no."

"Too incestuous?"

"Yes. Besides, he's a bastard."

She waited for him to continue, to explain himself more fully, but he seemed to think that comment was enough. "And you think Congreve is cut from the same cloth?" she finally asked.

"Yes."

"You hardly know the guy."

"I don't have to. I'm just a good judge of character."

"Right. Like you were of Alexis's violin teacher."

"He looked like a male model!"

"And she took you to pieces for interfering. I'm pretty sure her namesake will do the same if you go poking your pretty nose where it doesn't belong."

"She's my friend. We look out for each other." He knew he was being stubborn, and worse, foolish, but he blamed it on incipient hypothermia. "Always have."

"She likes him."

"Hitler was nice to dogs."

"Are you comparing him to –"

"No! No, of course not. It's just …"

"I get it." She looked smug. "You're jealous."

"Am not."

"Are too. You don't want her, but you'll be damned if anyone else can have her. You're just a dog in the manger."

That was way too close to a previous conversation he'd had with himself, so he just said, "I want her to be happy."

"Maybe Congreve can do that. Make her happy. The love of her life. Someone to always be there for her, through thick and thin, rich or poor, taking the good with the bad and not running from either, no matter what."

"Is that her shopping list or yours?" he asked, way too sharp in his own estimation.

"Okay, so what if it is?" Her jaw jutted a little. "I'm not so much of a liberated woman that I don't think about the possibility." Being scrupulously honest as well she added, "Occasionally, anyway."

"I didn't think Mags thought about it at all," Rick admitted, ending on a sigh.

"She's a woman. Attractive, talented, rich …"

"Do _you_ want to sleep with her?" he joked.

"I'm just saying everyone wonders, Castle. And James Congreve is actually here."

He harrumped, burying his chin even deeper into his scarf. Then … "You think my nose is pretty?"

She was saved from answering by one of the Patrol officers.

"Detective? We've got visual."

* * *

The water was cold. Even through the layers of insulation inside his drysuit Esposito could feel it creeping into his muscles. The spotlight next to the camera on his mask penetrated further than he'd thought, but he had to ignore the temptation to kick harder. It might warm him up, but it could also disturb the mud on the bottom, making what visibility there was almost non-existent, as well as using his air supply faster. Instead he swam smoothly, getting into an easy rhythm, his eyes firmly on the flippers of the diver in front.

They'd gone into the river a little way from the signal, allowing the current to put them in the right direction, and it wasn't long before the lead diver slowed, holding up his glowing GPS unit in one hand and pointing with the other.

There it was, emerging from the gloom, a large grey blob. For a moment Esposito felt a tightening of his gut, but whether that was in anticipation or apprehension at what they might find was debateable.

As they drifted closer the details became more apparent. They were approaching from in front of the vehicle, like Stanford and Osaki had done. The windshield seemed undamaged, although there was a lot of river muck accumulated on above the wipers, obscuring the inside of the cab. As he reached the door, Esposito wiped at the side window with his glove.

* * *

"A hundred says there's a skeleton sitting at the wheel," Rick said quietly, peering at the closed circuit screen under the canopy that had been erected to protect the equipment.

Nobody took him up on it as the image wavered, silt billowing, but after a moment it cleared as the current took the soft particles away, and the interior was revealed.

"Sucker bet," Kate murmured.

"Shit." Rick stared.

"I doubt you'd look any better after being underwater for the last fifty years."

"I don't think I'll try and find out."

"He's not sitting, though."

"There is that."

The picture was clear enough. It looked like the passenger side was more or less unoccupied, but the driver was definitely at home. A tumbled collection of bones, mixed with what was probably the remnants of his clothing, had scattered over the seats, a skull grinning sightlessly into the camera. One of his – or maybe her – canines appeared to be gold.

"I doubt we'd get any viable DNA," Kate went on. "Not from a body this long in the water, but we can try."

"Facial reconstruction?" Rick asked as the image changed, swooping past the side of the truck towards the back.

"I doubt it. It's expensive."

"I'll pay."

She turned enough to gaze at him. "Why?"

"Buried treasure, Kate. Okay, sunken treasure. But pirates." He grinned like the skeleton. "This is a great case."

"I'm glad you're amused."

"Detective." The technician monitoring the feed tapped the screen. "They're at the rear doors."

They both turned their attention back to what was happening down below.

* * *

The doors were closed, which in itself wasn't a particularly bad sign. Maybe one of the dead men had taken the time to secure the truck, but if they were attacked here then it wasn't likely. Still, there was only one way to find out.

Esposito turned his body so he could see the other divers, and gave the thumbs up sign. The leader pointed at two of them, and they each took hold of a handle. Wedging themselves against the sides of the truck, they pulled.

* * *

"Damn."

"You're disappointed."

Rick glanced at Kate. "Aren't you?"

"Not particularly."

"Why not?"

"Because with what we've seen on that recording, we know there _was_ something inside, and now there isn't." She looked back at the screen, the light from Esposito's camera moving as he slipped inside to check out all the corners.

"You mean you now have evidence there's been a crime," Rick realised.

"We know Osaki was murdered, but as it stood a case could be make for Stanford having cut his friend's throat. Maybe they argued over the treasure, maybe Osaki wanted to call in the authorities, and Stanford didn't. They went down, Stanford attacked him, killed him, perhaps got himself cut in the process. Then he came up too quickly and kharma played her part."

A slow smile spread across Rick's face. "I thought I was the one with the vivid imagination who made up wild theories."

Her eyebrow twitched. "That's what _could_ have been said. As it is, it's now much more likely a third party found out about the haul, and murdered both men."

Rick was nodding, then a treacherous thought occurred to him. "They _could_ have hidden the stuff already. You know, one piece at a time."

Kate shook her head. "There were statues, at least from what we could see. And marble weighs a lot – there's no way they could get them out with professional help."

"Maybe it was the professionals who turned on our guys."

"It's possible. But that still doesn't unprove my point."

"Unprove?"

She ignored the amusement in his eyes. "The goods are gone, where we don't know, but it's a fair bet Stanford and Osaki aren't responsible. And since it's unlikely two lots of treasure hunters found the exact same truck, then they're connected."

"Kate, I'm proud of you."

She glared at him. "You just want to watch the facial reconstruction."

"You bet."

The technician coughed, trying to get their attention again. "Excuse me? But I think your guy just found something."

* * *

"It was wedged into the corner," Esposito said, sitting on an equipment case, one of the Harbour Patrol officers helping him off with his tanks. "I'd've missed it, except the light caught the jewel on the pommel through the plastic wrapping."

Kate hadn't taken off her leather gloves, but the evidence bag was preventing the water from staining. "It's beautiful."

"You can say that again," Rick commented, leaning over her shoulder, staring at the ornate dagger. "Fifteenth century."

"How do you know?"

"Research for_ Eye of the Storm_," he said succinctly. "That is finest Toledo steel, with a solid gold handle, and what looks like rubies and emeralds set into the hilt."

Ryan, who had transferred somewhat trickily from the RIB to the main vessel, was nodding. "Derrick Storm was almost gutted with one very similar."

"Yes." Rick smiled. "It ends up being tossed over a cliff."

"Well, this isn't that one." Kate turned it this way and that. "There's a cipher on the blade." Indeed, as the light caught the metal they could see an engraving appearing and disappearing.

"It looks familiar, but ..." Rick shook his head. "I can't remember where I've seen it before."

"Old age, bro," Esposito said, standing up and joining them. "Happens to us all."

"Not me. I intend to stay young and ruggedly handsome forever."

"Right."

Ryan was grinning widely.

Kate didn't sigh, but it was a close run thing. "Looks like maybe we have to speak to Maggie's tame art expert again."

Rick's face fell. "Do we have to?"

"He knows all about this, and I don't intend bringing someone new on board at this point. So yes, we have to." Her lips curved a little. "You'll just have to grin and bear it."

He was saved from making a comment that would probably have ended up with him limping for the rest of the day by Kate's cellphone ringing.

Taking it from her pocket, she said, "Beckett." She listened intently for maybe ten seconds. "Which company?" Again a pause. "Got it." Closing her phone she looked at the others. "Our second piece of luck," she said. "Our trawl of the cab companies has turned up Stanford's phone out in Queens. Looks like he left it in the back."

"Road trip?" Rick asked, rubbing his hands together.

"Road trip," she confirmed.


	10. Chapter 10

"I was driving back to drop off the cab when this guy flags me down." The driver, one Leland Flynn, scratched his bald black head, then rubbed his hand over his face. He'd been wiping down his cab when they arrived, and had apparently removed his shirt despite the weather, pulling his suspenders back up over the off-white vest he'd on underneath. He was sweating slightly, but from the stains under his muscular arms this appeared to be his normal state, rather than because he was facing the police. "He was weird."

"Weird? How?" Kate asked.

"Well, he changed his mind 'bout where he wanted to go, for a start. Gave me an address in the Village, then a coupla minutes later he said he wanted to go someplace else. Like I said, I was heading back here, and I was seriously considering just dumping him, but since the second address was on my way home, I humoured him."

"What else?"

Leland shrugged. "He gave me the address, then just sat in the back. I'll tell yah, he didn't look too good. Kept screwing up his face, like he was aching someplace." He did the same, just to show them. "I told him, he needed to go to a hospital, not go chasing skirt."

"Chasing skirt?" Kate interrupted.

"Yeah. He said something about a girl, but he was mumbling, so I didn't get much of it."

"Go on."

"Then, when he came to pay me, he was shaking so much he dropped half his money in the gutter."

"You didn't think to call an ambulance?"

"Not my job," Leland said. "And like I said, I offered to take him to an emergency room, but he blanked me. Just told me to put my foot down."

"And you found the phone?"

"Yeah. Not right then, though. Coupla days later. Some prick'd thrown up in the back and I was cleaning it out – have to do it myself, and does anyone ever thank me? No. I'm just a cab driver."

"Mr Flynn. The phone?"

"Oh, yeah. Well, it was stuffed down the back, between the cushion and the seat. Figured he'd be calling for it eventually."

"Did you recognise it?" Rick asked.

"Yeah."

"How did you know it was his?"

"'Cause he made a call."

Kate's ears perked up. "From your cab?"

"Yeah. He got pissed 'cause there was no answer, then the battery died and he was swearing at it, then he gave me the new address."

Kate and Rick exchanged glances.

"Where's the phone now?" Kate asked.

"I left it with Dispatch." He looked down at his feet. "Then I seen the paper."

"The paper?"

"Yeah. This morning's edition." He walked to the table and picked it up. "Here."

Kate stared at the second page, and the photo of Oliver Stanford. Or rather, Oliver Stanford's body.

"Crime scene pic?" Rick asked quietly.

"No. From the quality, I'd say a cellphone." She looked back at Leland. "You recognised him?"

"Yeah. I was gonna call it in, only your guys rang before I could."

* * *

Kate studied the phone through the evidence bag, trying the power button. "It's dead all right." She went to pass it to Rick, but he put his hands up and backed off a pace. "What?"

"You heard what that guy said. What he was doing when he found it."

"Castle, it's in a bag."

"Do you know how many different bodily fluids can be found in the back of the average New York taxi?"

"No. But I'm sure you can tell me." She was dialling on her own cell now.

"Hundreds. Probably thousands. All of them waiting to breed diseases."

"I didn't know you were such a hypochondriac," Kate said, smirking slightly.

"If a man doesn't have his health, what does he have?" Rick asked, then added quickly, "Apart from money."

"Right."

"Besides, do you realise he didn't clean out the back of his cab for at least two days?"

Kate rolled her eyes at him, but spoke instead into her own phone. "Ryan. Anything?"

"_The Ledger said they paid five hundred bucks for the picture from one Antonio Sanchez. The name rang a bell – he was one of the guys who found the body."_

She sighed. "There's nothing we can do about it now. At least we've got the cell out of it. Has Esposito had any more luck with the phone companies?"

"_Nope. They're still saying without the number they can't do anything. Especially since it looks like it was a disposable."_

Kate looked at the evidence bag again. "Okay. We're heading back. Call me if you find anything."

"_Will do."_

She hung up and walked towards her car.

Rick, hurrying a little to catch up, asked, "Are you feeling as frustrated as I do?"

"Depends. How frustrated are you feeling?"

"On a scale of one to ten? About eight."

"That's par for the course." She opened the door and slid into the driver's seat, as normal.

He got in next to her. "I mean, we find the truck, only it's empty –"

"_Almost_ empty," she corrected as she started the engine, pulling quickly into traffic.

"... _almost_ empty, we've got two dead bodies but no suspects, and you're angry with me."

"Why do you say that?"

"Duncan?"

"Oh. Yes. Well, you were reliably foolish over that."

"Reliably?"

"As in, what else should I expect."

He did that look, the one where his eyes closed slightly, and his lips pursed. "Anyway," he went on, "I'm frustrated."

"We'll get a lead," she assured him.

"I don't know." He exhaled heavily. "I can't help feeling like we've missed something."

"Castle, you've been involved in enough cases to know that's also par for the course." She glanced at him. "This is no different."

"No. You're right." He stared out of the window for a minute, then said, "Did you dig anything up on Howard Harrison?"

"Who? Oh, Maggie's accuser?" She shook her head. "Not yet."

"But you will, won't you?"

"I promise."

"Good." He checked his watch surreptitiously, but not enough.

"Am I keeping you?" Kate asked, an amused note in her voice.

"No. No." He shrugged his coat back over his wrist. "It's just Maggie's thing is tonight, and I promised to take her."

"You'll be back in plenty of time."

He nodded.

* * *

James Congreve was waiting for them. He stood up as they approached, his height making the room seem smaller again.

"Detective Beckett. Castle," he said, nodding at them. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes." Kate motioned him to sit again, and she dropped into her own chair. Rick looked around for a spare, but they were all occupied, and he had to content himself with perching on the corner of the desk. "We found the truck."

James' eyes lit up. "Really? And was it ..."

"Empty."

"Damn."

"_Almost_ empty," Rick put in.

Kate ignored him. "There was this." She handed James the evidence bag with the dagger in it.

James peered at it, then quickly put his glasses on. "Can I touch it?" he asked.

"It's been printed, so ... yes."

He slid it out from the plastic, holding it delicately between surprisingly long fingers, touching only the point of the blade and the hilt. He turned it through every angle so he could get a good look. "This is wonderful workmanship," he said quietly. "Do you have any idea how many times the steel had to be folded to get this edge?"

"No. But I'm sure you can ... what?" Kate had seen the expression on his face change. "What is it?"

"My God." James placed the dagger carefully on the desk, cushioned by the evidence bag. "My God ..."

"What?"

"I know what this is."

Kate glanced at Rick, but he only shrugged.

"James, I'm sure Maggie doesn't mind you pausing for effect like this, but –"

"I'm not. I'm just ... shocked." He pulled himself together, his hands either side of the weapon. This time, though, he didn't touch it, just bent down enough so that his breath misted the metal over the cipher. "This _is_ stolen property, by the way."

"It didn't come up on any list, not even the FBI."

He smiled, just a little. "I doubt even that one goes back to 1554."

"Probably not." Kate's brows drew together. "It's that old?"

"It was made in 1493."

"You seem pretty certain," Rick put in.

"Oh, I am." James sat back and looked at them both over the top of his glasses. "I don't know the name of the actual craftsman – I don't think anyone does – but ..." He paused a moment, then went on, "1493 was the year the Cathedral de Toledo was finally completed, after more than two hundred years of work."

"It's an amazing building," Rick agreed, looking at Kate. "The main altar, _El Transparente_, is several stories high, covered in paintings, figures, bronzes ... and once a day the light hits the very top, just for a few minutes."

"I know," she said dryly. "I've seen it."

"Well, excuse me." But he smiled.

"Would you like me to leave you two alone while you work out this UST?" James asked.

"No." Kate looked back at him. "Please, go on."

"Thank you." He didn't smile, but his lips twitched. "Anyway, this dagger was made to commemorate the completion, and given to Cardinal Mendoza, who had overseen the final works. He in turn donated it to the Cathedral when his own sepulchre was being built." Now he did smile a little. "It was given pride of place in a statue of St Peter, tucked in his belt."

"Some fishing knife," Rick muttered.

"Indeed."

"How do you know this is the same knife?" Kate asked. "I mean, there must be a number of daggers that look like this."

"Oh, I agree." James removed his glasses, using them to point with. "But 1493 was also the date of a Papal Bull that ceded certain territories in South America to Spain. And the cipher on the blade is the entwined monogram of Pope Alexander VI and Mendoza's patron –"

"Queen Isabella of Spain!" Rick finished. "Of course!"

"Wow," Kate said, staring at the dagger in appreciation. "I'd say that about proves it's the same one." She glanced up. "What happened to it?"

"It was stolen Christmas 1554, during a midnight mass, and the Pope of the time declared the thief, whoever he was, to be excommunicated for all eternity."

"Well, it sure didn't do our driver any good," Rick commented.

James leaned forward, just a fraction, and lowered his voice, as if he was imparting a secret. "You know, it's said that the gold in the handle came from the original cargo Columbus brought back."

"I guess what goes around comes around," Kate murmured.

"Anyway," James went on, "like the Rokeby Medusa there are mentions of the dagger in various diaries and accounts, until a final letter from Lord Byron to one of his mistresses suggests he saw it in a private collection in Milan, but after that ... nothing."

"I hate to ask, but is it valuable?"

"Priceless. And I mean that. The Spanish Government is going to have kittens when it hears it's been recovered."

Rick couldn't help smirking. Hearing this big man use such a phrase just seemed so incongruous.

Using just two fingers, as if wary of damaging it, Kate put the dagger back into the plastic bag. "It's not going anywhere for the moment," she said. Once it was safely sealed away, she added, "I don't think we can doubt the evidence any longer. Stanford and Osaki managed to stumble on the find of the century, and got killed for their pains."

James looked at his watch. "If there's nothing else ..."

"No." Kate stood up, the expert following her. "And thanks."

"Believe me, I'd have given my right arm to be allowed to handle this," he said fervently.

"I'm glad you didn't have to." They shook. "Can you find your own way out?"

"No problem." James turned to Rick. "And don't forget Maggie tonight."

The author raised an eyebrow. "As if I would."

* * *

Maggie stared at her clothes. Nothing seemed right, but she knew that was nerves. The call from her publishers hadn't helped.

_"We've invited Howard Harrison."_

She'd almost dropped the phone. "You've what?"

Clarissa Levington was as conciliatory as an editor could get. _"We have to be seen to be taking this seriously, but at the same time not giving in."_

"So you've decided the best way of doing that is by giving him even more ammunition?"

_"Maggie, I doubt he'll even turn up."_

"And if he does?" Maggie rubbed her hand across her face. "What do you expect me to say to him?"

_"Be nice."_

"Nice?" For a moment Maggie couldn't say anything else. "Nice? Nice?"

_"Maggie, breathe."_

"Clarissa, I can't guarantee I'll even be able to stop myself punching him, let alone be able to smile at him."

_"I would suggest you try the smile, and not the punch."_

Maggie had hung up, wondering when the people at Mackinnon had lost their sense of humour. Probably about the time she'd wondered if writing for a living was a good idea ... maybe she should go and play with sharks instead.

Alexis stuck her head around the door, breaking into her reverie. "Maggie, the car firm called and ..." She stopped. "What are you doing?"

"I don't want to go." Maggie sat down on the bed, burying her head in her hands.

"Dad will be back in time," Alexis said, joining her and putting her arm around her shoulders. "He promised."

"I know." Maggie exhaled heavily then smiled, looking at the young girl. "Your dad's right, you know. You're far more grown up than him. And me."

"One of us has to be." Alexis grinned. "And you need to be getting ready."

"I can't decide what to wear," Maggie admitted.

"Then let's take a look at the options, shall we?" Alexis jumped to her feet, all youthful exuberance.

"I'm not going to survive this, am I?" Maggie said, shaking her head.

The girl laughed. "Come _on_."

* * *

"Yo, Beckett." Esposito was crossing the bull pen towards them. "We hit paydirt on Stanford's phone records."

Kate turned from the murder board. "Tell me."

He handed over a colour copy of a DMV licence. "Sarah Richardson, 22. Grade school teacher. In the last month Stanford called her more than two dozen times."

She looked up sharply. "Girlfriend?"

"I'd say. Most of the calls lasted at least ten minutes, and one was over an hour." He looked smug.

"Okay," Kate said. "I'll bite. What?"

"She lives just one block over from the warehouse Stanford's body was found in."

"One block ..." Kate glanced at the large map tacked to another board. "So when our cab driver said he was trying to call someone it was probably her. Then his battery died and he changed his destination."

"I spoke to Lanie," Esposito went on. "Disorientation is a symptom of the Bends. Sarah lives on the third floor."

"And Stanford's body was on the third floor." She smiled. "Good work."

"What?" Rick hurried in, a cup in either hand. "What did I miss?"

"It looks like Stanford was trying to go to see his girlfriend the night he died, only ended up in the warehouse next door instead." Kate was staring at the photos on her board.

"Girlfriend?" Rick looked almost annoyed. "How come I'm the last to hear about this?"

"Because you went to the little boy's room." She took one of the cups from him. "And I hope you washed your hands."

"Of course!" His annoyance dissolved into a smile. "Girlfriend, huh? What do you suppose they pillow-talked about?"

"We'll soon find out." Kate turned back to Esposito. "Get uniforms to bring her in."

"Already on it," the detective said, grinning.

"Great. Are we keeping you?" This last was to Rick, who had glanced surreptitiously at his watch.

"Just thinking about Maggie's do," he admitted.

"Don't worry," she assured him. "I'll make sure you're away in good time."


	11. Chapter 11

Sarah Richardson was a little harder to find than anticipated, but eventually she was sitting in the interrogation room, her hands clasped tightly on the table top. "Why am I here?" she asked as Kate and Rick came through the door.

Kate sat down, her black pad in front of her, Rick taking the seat next to her. "I'm Detective Beckett, this is Richard Castle."

Sarah glared at them both. "I asked why I'm here."

"Oliver Stanford."

"What about him?"

"You're his girlfriend."

She shrugged. "Sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"We're not joined at the hip." Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Kate took a breath. "Miss Richardson, you are aware Oliver Stanford's body was found in the warehouse next to your apartment."

"Wh ... what?" All the colour fled the young woman's face, and if she was acting she deserved an Oscar. "He's ... he's ..." She couldn't say it, just sat swallowing hard.

Rick passed her the cup of water he'd been carrying. "Here."

"I ... uh ..." Sarah grabbed it, gulping half of it down. "You're not kidding me?"

"No, Miss Richardson," Kate said gently. "I'm afraid not."

"How ... who ..."

"That's what we're trying to find out."

"When did you see him last?" Rick asked.

"Um ..." She wiped at her cheek, brushing away the tears that had started to fall. "Not for a week or so."

"Why not?" Kate took over. "As his girlfriend ..."

"I told you, we weren't in each other's pockets!" Sarah snapped. "Besides, when he's out with Clyde I don't get much more than a phone call."

"Clyde Osaki."

"Yes."

Rick's brow was furrowed. "Sarah, how did you not know Oliver was dead? It's been all over the news for the last couple of days."

"I've been sick." She pulled a handkerchief from her purse, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose at the same time. "'Flu. I've been sick for the last five days."

"And you don't watch TV?"

"No. The news depresses me, so I catch up on DVDs. And sleep."

Rick nodded slightly, having been there himself. "Of course."

"I'm not even back at work yet," Sarah said, sniffing. "I had to go food shopping, otherwise I'd still be in bed." The tissue had smudged the thick mascara on her lashes, and shown the red nose she'd tried to hide with foundation.

Kate took the interview back. "When did you last hear from Oliver?"

"Friday morning. He called, asked how I was."

"He didn't come around."

"No, I told you. I haven't seen him for over a week. Besides, I told him not to. I didn't want him catching my cold." She dabbed at her nose again.

For one second Rick wondered how much of the red eyes was because she wasn't well or if she was really upset, then told himself off. From what he could see, she wasn't that good an actress.

"How long did you talk?" Kate wanted to know.

"Not long. Maybe five minutes."

Kate idly tapped her notepad, and Rick glanced down. In her semi-neat handwriting she'd written _Last phone call twenty-three minutes_. "Is that all?"

"Like I said, we weren't that serious."

"Did he tell you what he was doing?"

A flash of irritation made Sarah seem more human. "Him and Clyde, always saying they were on the verge of 'the big score.'" She even did the air quotes. "And it's been so much worse lately – all he could talk about was how they'd made the find of the century and they were going to be filthy rich and famous. Then he'd go all mysterious and pretend he'd only been joking." She tossed her blonde hair back. "Ask Clyde. He'd know more than me."

"Clyde Osaki is dead."

This time Rick was positive the young teacher hadn't known. He wondered if she was actually going to faint as she groped for the cup of water. "What?"

"Murdered."

Sarah's hand was shaking as she lifted the plastic cup to her lips. "You mean Oliver and Clyde actually found something?"

"It's an ongoing investigation," Kate said, sitting back. "And you're positive they didn't give you any more details?"

"They didn't tell me anything at all!" She jammed her lips shut, embarrassed at having almost shouted. Then, much quieter, "What happened to them? Did it ... did they ... was it painful?"

"Very few deaths are pleasant, Miss Richardson."

"Yes. Yes, of course."

They questioned her for another few minutes, but she kept repeating that Oliver never told her anything important, and Clyde wasn't a friend, more a nuisance. Eventually they let her leave, with the usual request not to go out of town as they might have more questions.

Rick watched her hurry to the elevator, her head down, tissue clasped to her breast, then turned back to Kate who was standing gazing at the murder board. "Do you get the feeling she didn't tell us everything?"

"Most people don't." She inhaled deeply. "Ryan and Esposito are looking into her background, just in case there's a link to ... whoever."

"Whoever." Rick smiled. "I can just see you telling the Commissioner that. No suspects, but there might be a whoever."

She didn't respond for what seemed like an age, and he was just about to make another comment when she finally said, "Call Monaghan."

"What?" He put his hand on his heart. "I thought he wasn't reliable enough."

"He's not. Not as a witness, at least. But you were right – this case has links back to 1963, and he's the closest we've got to an inside lead." She turned to look at him. "Believe me, I'm not asking just for the hell of it. As it stands we have nothing to go on."

He nodded, reaching into his pocket for his cell. "Don't worry. I won't hold it against you. Very often." He glanced down, then the smug look was wiped from his face. "Shit. Is that the time?"

Kate glanced at the clock. "7.15. Why?"

"Shit. Double shit." He grabbed his overcoat. "I'm late."

Realisation struck. "Maggie's thing."

"I'm never going to get home in time." Speed dialling he listened, then disgust flowed over his features. "It's going to voicemail." He waited for the message to finish, then said, "Maggie, I am so sorry. I'll meet you there, okay?"

"I'll drive," Kate said, picking up her own coat and car keys.

"Thanks." He shook his head as they ran for the elevator. "She is never going to forgive me."

"It's okay. I'll get you there," she promised. "I'll even let you use the siren." When he didn't comment, didn't even make a joke, she knew he was too angry with himself, and she nodded slightly.

* * *

Maggie sat on the stairs of the duplex, and stared at her cell, willing it to ring. He couldn't have forgotten, not after promising the way he had. Not knowing how she felt about this. He had to be here.

Only he wasn't.

With trembling fingers she dialled.

He picked up after the fourth ring, a smile in his voice as he must have seen the caller ID. _"Maggie."_

"Hello, James. I ..."

"_Maggie, what is it?"_

"Could you … would you mind escorting me to this press thing?"

"_I thought Castle was going to –"_

"He's not turned up."

"_What about … who is it, Martha? Alexis?"_

"They went on ahead. I sent them in the hire car. Otherwise I'd have …" She swallowed hard. "I was waiting for him."

There was silence for a moment, then his deep voice said, _"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."_

"Thank you."

"_For you, anything. And you know I mean that."_

"Yes. I know."

The call disconnected and Maggie stared at the phone, feeling tears prickling at her eyes.

* * *

Sarah Richardson waited until she was outside the precinct house before pulling her cellphone from her purse and dialling with a savage finger. It took maybe thirty seconds for the other end to pick up, and by that time she was halfway down the block, striding angrily away from the police station.

"What did you do?" she demanded, barely waiting for a response. "Oliver's dead. So's Clyde." She listened. "I don't care. I told you all that in confidence." Again a pause. "Of course I haven't told anyone else! How could I? Who'd believe me?" She took a breath. "Yes, I know it. It'll take me three quarters of an hour to get there. Why can't we ... Okay, yes, fine. I'll see you there."

Thumbing the off switch, she headed for the subway station, disappearing into the crowd.

* * *

It was worse than she had ever anticipated. Far from being the quiet book party that she had hoped for, all the world's press seemed to be crammed into the large room, and they clustered around, snapping photos, asking questions. Above her, on boards that filled the wall from floor to ceiling, were huge representations of the book cover to _Tears at Midnight_, the image being the silhouette of a woman's face, a fat teardropped diamond on her cheek under the title.

"I wish I'd never written the damn thing," she murmured, trying to keep smiling.

"It's an excellent book," James said, his arm around her waist.

"You've read it?" She was surprised. "When did you –"

"Maggie, I read everything you write." He leaned closer to whisper in her ear, and the flashbulbs went mad. "I've never managed to put your books down until I've got to the final page."

She leaned into him. "Thank you."

"What for?"

"Being here."

"Whatever you want, Maggie." He held up a hand and spoke to the reporters. "I'm sure you'll all get the quotes you want, but I think perhaps you'd like to get a drink first?"

There were mumbles among the pack, but they dispersed slowly.

"Thanks," Maggie breathed again.

"No problem."

"Maggie?"

She half-turned, coming face to face with Alexis. "Hi, sweetie."

"Where's my dad?"

"Honestly? I don't care anymore."

Martha, at her grand-daughter's shoulder, sighed heavily. "I'm sure he just got caught up with something."

"Of course he did." Maggie didn't want to sound bitter, but the tension and stress of the last few days was getting to her. "Much more important than his promise to me."

"Maggie ..." Alexis pleaded, but it was only half-hearted. She knew her father, how involved he'd got in police work, how it meant he'd sometimes had less time for her.

Maggie sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean ..." She took a deep breath. "I'd better introduce you." Turning to the man at her side she said, "James, this is Alexis Castle and Martha Rodgers. Ladies, this is James Congreve."

He dropped his head and smiled. "Nice to meet you."

"My, you're a good looking man," Martha said.

James chuckled. "Thank you."

"How do you feel about older women?"

"Grams," Alexis hissed.

"What, dear?"

"What about Chet?"

"Darling, I can look, can't I?"

Maggie finally laughed, if only a little. She hugged them both. "Thank you. I needed that."

Martha smiled. "That's what friends are for, kiddo." She straightened up and smoothed her dress. "Now, where's the bar?"

"I'll escort you," James said. "I think Maggie could do with a drink."

"Excellent idea." Martha hooked her arm through Alexis's.

James looked at Maggie. "Any preferences?"

"Arsenic?"

He grinned. "I'll surprise you." He moved off, his height clearly showing his movement towards the bar, the other two following him.

"Darling, wherever did you find him?" Clarissa Levington had materialised at Maggie's elbow. "And I want one."

Maggie turned to look at her. "Back off. He's far too good to be just a notch on your bedpost."

"Good?"

"Good. Nice. As far above the ranks of your normal conquests as it's possible to get."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Pity." The good humour in her face died away, to be replaced by her business persona. "Maggie, Howard Harrison is here."

"He's ..." Maggie closed her eyes, trying to keep her heart rate from going into hyperdrive. "He's here?" She looked at her book editor. "I thought you said he wasn't likely to turn up?"

"I've got someone with him at the moment, keeping him from the press, but he doesn't seem interested in spilling the beans."

"Clarissa, I didn't plagiarise!"

"I know, Maggie. I know." Clarissa patted her arm. "I'm sure he's only here for the free booze, and not likely to make any trouble."

"And if he does? What then?"

"We'll cross that unlikely bridge when we come to it."

Maggie sighed, wishing she'd told James to make a break for the Canadian border, and not come here to her own personal hell. "Just try and keep him away from me."

"Don't do anything stupid."

"Clarissa, you did the stupid thing in inviting him." Movement to her left had her glancing that way, and she could see a reporter heading in her direction, gearing up his notebook. "Just ... try, will you?"

"I'll do my best." Clarissa slid back into the crowd, and Maggie put on her smile, hoping it reached her eyes.

* * *

One eye was closed, she knew that, and touching her face had made her throw up into the shadows. Somewhere on the edge of her hearing she could hear shouting – they must have realised she'd got out. She started to run again, kicking off her shoes as the broken heel made her too slow. There. Light. Cars. So close. But the voices behind her were getting closer.

People. Crossing in front of the alleyway's mouth. Help. Safety.

"Hey!"

She tried to speed up, tripped, attempted to catch herself on the wall but her broken fingers couldn't get a grip, and she shot through into the crowd, finding a space but unable to stop. A blur of yellow, a sound that translated through her body, then she was flying, landing on her back, all the air knocked out of her.

Faces gathered around, some afraid, some trying to help, and she opened her mouth, wanting to speak, to tell them, to plead for someone to make it all stop. To breathe.

"Someone call an ambulance."

"Already done."

"Tell them not to hurry. It's too late."

She gazed brokenly into the sky, everything finally at peace.


	12. Chapter 12

It had been like pulling a plaster from her skin, only Maggie couldn't do it all in one go, but had to pick at the corner, taking it a tiny fraction at a time, all the while wishing she could just go and hide.

James had been a tower of strength. He'd brought back a glass of orange juice – with a hit of vodka in it – and then hadn't left her side. After a while he'd steered her towards one of the tables at the side, so at least she didn't feel like her knees were going to give way, particularly since he'd whisked away all but three of the chairs meaning there could only be one interview at a time.

She'd even started to relax, if not to enjoy, talking easily about her work, her methods, and what she had planned next. As the third reporter finished, shaking hands firmly, James excused himself to get refills and give Maggie a little breathing space.

"Just tell them to wait," he advised.

"They don't do things like that."

"Then pretend you're asleep."

She laughed. "I can see that making headlines."

"Try." He winked at her then slid into the crowd.

Maggie looked around, seeing Martha and Alexis talking to someone the older woman obviously knew by the bar. It wasn't surprising, of course. They went to all Rick's launches, and it was usually the same people invited.

The thought of Rick made her frown. He'd let her down, and that was something she wasn't sure she could forgive, not this time. He always remembered her birthday, and on more than one occasion dropped everything to help her get over a bad break-up, once moving lock, stock and barrel to LA for a month while she recovered from a broken ankle, so the little things she could forgive, like olives on pizza. But after promising that he'd be there, knowing what she was going through, this was the final straw. If James hadn't rushed to her rescue, she was sure even now she'd be sitting in the loft, on her own, staring at an empty bottle of Jack.

She knew it shouldn't get to her. He was busy, and now he was working with Kate Beckett his free time was even more precious, and he had a family, and ... and ... and ... If he'd only said no in the first instance, it wouldn't be so bad. But promising the way he had ...

"Well, well, Ms Maguire."

Maggie looked up, the smile ready, no matter how fake, but her face set when she realised who it was. "Mr Harrison."

"Maggie, what happened to you calling me Howard?" He smiled, but there was something wrong with it. More like a wild animal, about to pounce on something smaller and squeakier. Smug, maybe, but nothing like Rick's more humorous expression.

"What do you want?" she asked, attempting to keep her cool.

"An autograph?" He held out a copy of her book.

Her hands grasped each other on the table top. "I don't think that would be a good idea, do you?"

He slid into the seat opposite. "There's no need to be like that. All you have to do is be sensible and instruct Mackinnon to pay me what's due."

She studied him like she would a specimen, like her hero in _Tears at Midnight_ studied the fragments of flesh under his microscope. Aged about thirty, he was a little shorter than she was, and thinner than she remembered from the classes she'd taught – now he was stick-thin, like maybe he was sick. His hair was brown, curled tightly so he looked like an anorexic teddy bear, and his clothes, a suit probably quickly bought off the peg, hung from his shoulders, but he didn't seem to care.

She took a breath and spoke quietly, reasonably, totally unlike the way she was feeling inside. "Mr Harrison, since various lawyers are involved, I really think it is quite unwise for us to have more than the most basic conversation, don't you?"

Howard shrugged. "You're going to pay me off, you know."

"Am I?"

"It's going to be so much simpler in the long run."

"Since I know what I did and didn't do, that's something of a moot point."

"Moot." He chuckled, but it wasn't pleasant. "I always loved it when you used words like that."

A thought struck her. "Now that would be interesting."

"Oh?"

"Just an idea." She leaned forward. "I think perhaps we should compare books."

"What?"

"What you said ... me using words like that ... you're quite right, of course. Writers use words in an almost unique way, peculiar to themselves. And there are computer programs that can compare just such usage." She smiled a little. "I wonder who it would show was the plagiarist?"

His face lost a little of its colour, but he said, "I don't know what you mean."

"Of course you do. My style is well known ... and I have other books they could examine to create a benchmark. Then all they need to do is check _Freshman's Creek_. What do you think they'd find?"

"You put them into your own style," he blustered.

"Then you can't claim plagiarism." Maggie sat back. "You know, I changed my mind, Mr Harrison. Perhaps this was a good idea after all."

Howard Harrison jumped to his feet. "You won't get away with it. My life's work ..."

"There you are." It was Clarissa Levington, her face clearing from its worried frown. "I'd wondered where you'd got to, Howard." She slipped her arm through his. "If there's any possibility that you might be writing for us, there's at least three people I need to introduce you to."

Maggie's eyebrows threatened to fly from her forehead, but Clarissa winked. Barely a drop of her eyelid, but it was definitely a wink as she steered the man away from the table.

"Can they do that?" James sat down next to her, handing her another glass of orange juice.

"Mmn?" She turned enough to look into his face.

"Compare styles."

"You were listening?"

"Maggie, you should know by now that I don't intend to ever be that far from you." He smiled, his cobalt blue eyes piercing.

"I ..." She swallowed, then did so again, this time around a mouthful of orange juice. Then she coughed. "Damn it, James, how much vodka did they put in this?"

"You looked like you needed it." He chuckled. "Drink it all back like a good little girl. It'll put hairs on your chest."

"I don't want hairs on my chest," Maggie insisted, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. "And I haven't been a good little girl for a very long time."

"Really?" He shuffled a little closer. "Tell me more."

She laughed, finally. "Stop it."

"Never." He laid his hand gently on hers. "And sometimes I wonder if you'd ever really want me to."

He really was good-looking, she had to admit. He had such a strong jaw, those eyes ... and the tiny scar on his right cheek was enough to give him character. "James ..."

"So," he went on quickly, as if afraid of what she might be going to say. "This computer thing you told Harrison about ... does it really work?"

"It's been done before," she admitted.

"And it is admissible?"

"Um ... no. That's the rub. Despite it being done with a computer, it's still subjective."

"So if he decided to call your bluff on his bluff, you'd still have to prove it."

She sighed, collapsing a little. "Yes."

"Then we won't let it get that far."

She patted his arm. "James, sweetie, I love you, but even you can't magic this away."

His eyes sparkled. "Try me."

A slight commotion at the main doors grabbed their attention, and for a moment Maggie's heart leaped into her mouth, afraid Clarissa hadn't managed to keep hold of Howard Harrison, but then it dropped for an entirely different reason.

Richard Castle had arrived.

She watched as he entered the room like he did everything in his life – with swagger and bravado. It was as if he expected the attention, the applause, taking it as his due, sucking it up to make himself even more famous. She knew it wasn't the truth, that a lot of it was fake, put on to mask his odd insecurities, that in fact she'd asked him to come to do exactly that, but right now that didn't matter. All she saw was the façade, the image, the _I've got it all and don't you just want me_ persona. And it tasted bitter.

Worse, Kate Beckett was with him. The detective slid around the photographers, getting past while the journalists were asking relevant questions like _What's the new Nikki Heat novel going to be called?_, _Have you ever been shot at?_, and even the old perennial _Where do you get your ideas?_

"How come other authors aren't feted like this?" James asked, his deep voice making the air tremble in her ear.

"Because most authors look like James Patterson," Maggie said shortly. "Or me."

"You're beautiful."

"And he walks into the same room and they all want to talk to him."

"Wasn't that what you wanted?"

"Not like this."

"Besides, Maggie, that's not true." He pulled her around so he could look into her green eyes. "You're the star of this show. You, A J Maguire. Not Richard Castle." He stroked a finger down her jaw. "And I'd rather talk to you any day."

"Yes, but you're biased."

"I don't care."

"Oh, James …" She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Holding it for as long as she could, she finally exhaled through pursed lips. This time, when she looked up, it was the confident author Alexis Jayne Maguire, not the publicity hating Mags.

He grinned. "That's better. Now go get back your limelight." He stood up, pulling her with him before turning her around and patting her on the backside.

"Watch it," she murmured, then tossed back her head. Walking as tall as she could, she strode forwards, the crowd of photographers parting before her. "Rick, darling. So glad you could make it."

"Maggie." He smiled at her, but it was somewhat hesitant. "Look, I'm sorry I wasn't –"

"Later," she whispered, standing next to him but facing the cameras.

"This way, Ms Maguire," one of the photographers called, and the lights flashed.

* * *

Half a dozen more 'exclusive' interviews later, Maggie had retreated to the end of the bar, ostensibly still smiling, but shaking inside.

"Ma'am?" the bartender, looking all of about thirteen years old, approached. "Can I get you something?"

"A vodka martini," Rick supplied, strolling up. "With a twist of lemon and no olives."

"No," Maggie immediately contradicted. "Just spring water, lots of ice."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Not like you, Maggie," Rick said, leaning on the bar next to her.

"Yes, well, I don't feel like alcohol tonight." The second orange juice had really been much heavier with the vodka.

"I thought we did pretty good," he said, grabbing one of the breadsticks from a jar and munching the end.

"Did we?"

"Mmn. Nobody would ever guess."

"No, I suppose not." Her bitterness came through clearly.

"Mags? What is it? It's what we agreed, wasn't it? For me to come and deflect some of the attention."

"I know. But that's not the point."

"So what is?"

"Why weren't you there, Rick?"

"Where?"

"At the apartment. When you said you would. To be my escort."

"I know. And I am sorry. Honestly."

Her eyes flashed with anger. "You didn't even call."

"No, I did, but ... you must have left already."

"James came."

Rick felt an irrational surge of annoyance. "So I saw."

"Don't be like that," she hissed. "At least I could rely on him."

"Mags, I said I was sorry." He knew he was only making excuses, but still he continued, "Kate and I were chasing a lead that –"

"Kate. Yes, of course." Maggie glanced towards the detective standing not that far away, by the display of books. She was making a show of reading one of them, but her eyes weren't even on the page. "I should have known."

"And what does that mean?"

"I always used to be able to count on you. You know how much I hate these things, and you promised. Except you found something better to do."

Rick shook his head. "Mags, it wasn't my choice."

"Of course it was. You're not a cop. You didn't have to follow just because she led."

"We're chasing a murderer."

"No. _Kate_ is. You're writing a book." She stepped closer, her face only a few inches below his. "That's who you are. Richard Castle, best-selling author, emphasis on the _author _part. Remember?"

"I remember." He was beginning to feel the stirrings of anger himself. "Look, I'm sorry I was late. But I'm here now, aren't I?" He nodded towards the man mountain, standing far enough away to not be part of the conversation, but close enough to intervene if needed. "Anyway, he _was_ here."

"It's not good enough." She was starting to blink harder, a sure sign she was trying not to cry.

He put his hand on her arm. "Mags –"

"Don't call me that." She pulled away, stepping back. "Why don't you grow up, Rick?" With that she turned on her heel and walked away, almost banging into someone but not even noticing.

Rick went to follow, but Kate pushed gently past him. "No," she said. "Let me."

* * *

Kate found Maggie in the ladies room, staring at herself in the mirror. Their eyes met, then Maggie quickly looked down, running water into the basin.

"Are you okay?" Kate asked.

"Fine."

"Do you want to try that with a bit more conviction?"

"Not really."

"Maggie, it was my fault he was late. He told me he had to be back, but time got away from us, and –"

"And he'd rather be with you than me. It's okay, I get it." Maggie ran her hands under the faucet then shook the drops off, splattering the mirror.

"That's not what I said."

Maggie turned. "You think I don't see? What we joked about, before ... about sharing him. We can't do that. Not like that."

"Maggie –"

"Kate, I like you. A lot. I think we could be really good friends. But not tonight."

A man's voice called through the closed door. "Maggie? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, James."

"I don't think you are."

"I'll be right out."

"Okay. But I'm not moving from this spot. And there are half a dozen women out here getting very annoyed with me."

Maggie didn't smile, but there was a slight tilt to her lips. "One minute. I promise." She looked at Kate, at all the things she wanted to be but wasn't. "I know it was only a joke, don't worry. And we can both see where his loyalties lie. At least there's a man out there who dropped everything to help me."

"Maggie, Rick's helping too. I told you, it was my fault –"

"I think my minute's up, don't you?" Maggie strode to the door and pulled it open. James was indeed blocking the entry, although the four women who were waiting didn't seem to mind that much. "Sorry, ladies," she said, her own façade back in place. "But he's with me." She linked her arm through James's and stalked away, much to the chagrin of his audience.

Kate watched her go, almost stepping forward as the older woman got caught by yet another journalist before they could reach the bar, and she wondered if anyone else could see the effort Maggie was making to be the author everyone expected.

A vibration and buzzing from her pocket indicated a call coming in to her cell, and she stepped back into the bathroom to take it in relative quiet.

* * *

"Dad."

He smiled at his daughter. "Hey, pumpkin. How's it going?"

"Where were you?" Alexis asked.

The smile faded. "Not you too?"

"Us three," Martha added, squeezing in next to him. "You promised."

"We ... I ..." He stopped. "I know," he admitted, his breath escaping in a low, drawn out sigh.

"You know how she felt." Alexis shook her head. "What she's going through."

"I'll make it up to her."

Martha raised her eyebrows. "And how are you planning on doing that, kiddo?" She glanced towards Maggie and James. "I'd say that boat's sailed."

"We're friends, mother. She'll forgive me."

"You're right. She probably will." Martha patted his hand. "Although I'm not sure you deserve it."

He looked about as regretful as he ever had in his life. "I'm not sure either."

Kate appeared at his elbow. "We've got another body," she murmured, keeping her voice low so as not to attract any attention.

His lips tightened. "Don't we have enough?"

She understood, not taking offence at his sharp tone. "I'll go. You stay."

Rick glanced at the couple by the bar. "No. I'll come." He looked at Martha. "As long as you make sure Alexis gets home safely?"

His daughter glared at him, her red hair flaming more than normal. "I'll get Gram home," she said pointedly.

Martha went to speak, probably to tell him he shouldn't go, but in the end she held her tongue. "Yes, darling," was all she said.

Rick dropped a kiss onto each of their cheeks then followed Kate towards the doors, glancing back only once towards where James Congreve had his arm around his Maggie's waist. He shook his head sadly.

Kate poked him in the shoulder and handed him his coat, a knowing look in her eyes.

"I don't think they're very happy with me," Rick admitted quietly as he took it from her, shrugging into it and buttoning himself in as they slipped outside.

"Who, Martha and Alexis?"

"And Mags."

"I'd say that was an understatement." As the cold air hit them Kate turned to face him. "Castle, I'm only going to say this once, then that's it. But you need to make a few hard decisions about things, about what's important in your life."

"I know what's important." He pulled his coat higher around his neck.

"I'm not sure they know that."

Tugging his leather gloves from his pockets, he deliberately changed the subject. "Another DB, huh? I thought our caseload was full."

She walked towards the car, tossing over her shoulder, "According to Esposito, it's Sarah Richardson."


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: **I am so sorry about the delay in updating - too many stories to write, too little time. I hope you're still interested, and I'll try and get more chapters out in a quicker fashion. Anyway, enjoy the continuation ...

* * *

The crime scene had attracted an audience. People were crammed up behind the barriers, craning to see what was going on, their expectant faces lit by the temporary floodlights set up around the site.

"I'll never understand what it is about sudden death makes people want to rubberneck," Rick said, shaking his head as he and Kate made their way towards the small knot of officers.

"Didn't it ever occur to you that following me around is the ultimate rubbernecking?" Kate asked, barely glancing at him.

"I like to think I'm helpful on occasion."

"Once in a while," she allowed before approaching Ryan. "How did they know to call us?" she asked, looking down at the body.

Ryan held out a small evidence bag. "She had your card in her pocket."

"So it is Sarah Richardson."

"No purse, phone or wallet ... but even with ... that –" He gestured with his notebook. "– it's her."

Kate went down onto her heels, resting one wrist on her knee as she examined the young woman. Ryan was right – the face was a mess, the road surface having acted like a grater on her cheeks and forehead, but even with the damage it was obviously the teacher they'd spoken to earlier in the day.

"Lanie? What can you tell me?" she asked, glancing up.

"Cause of death was being hit by a truck." Lanie Parish made a note on her clipboard. "I'll have to wait to get her back on my slab to get you anything more definite, but I'm not sure all the injuries were caused by the collision."

"How can you tell?" Rick asked, glad he hadn't eaten anything at the book reception, considering Sarah's face resembled raw meat.

"Experience."

"Several witnesses say she came out of that alley," Ryan said, pointing. "She was staggering, and more than one said she was bleeding already."

"She was being chased," Rick said confidently.

"Why do you think that?" Kate asked, turning her clear gaze on him.

He nodded down towards her feet. "No shoes. Nobody would go barefoot in any alley in New York unless they had to."

Lanie seemed impressed. "She's got cuts on her feet from what looks like broken glass, her panty hose is ripped through ... I'd say Castle's right."

"First time for everything." Kate stood up and looked back to Ryan. "Subpoena her phone records. Somehow I don't think it's a coincidence we talk to her and she ends up like this."

Rick pulled his head a little lower into his coat as a cold breeze ruffled his hair. "I told you she wasn't telling us everything."

"I don't think I disagreed with you." She gave Ryan another instruction. "And see if you can find out if the GPS chip is activated in her cellphone. That might get us a location on where she came from if the phone's still there."

"Got it, boss." He tugged his own cell from his pocket, walking away for a little privacy and crossing with his partner as he strode forwards.

Esposito spoke as he approached. "CSU have found a blood trail, but it petered out fifty feet down the alley. And one of the witnesses told a uniform she thought a man came out after our vic."

Kate pursed her lips slightly. "Description?"

"Male, youngish, medium height ..." He shrugged. "It was dark, and he ducked back pretty fast. I'm surprised anyone saw him at all."

"What about fingerprints? Other trace?"

Lanie straightened. "I'll check her clothes, skin ... but don't hold your breath." She signalled her own colleagues, the two morgue attendants, to come forward with the black zip bag and gurney.

"And there'll be thousands of prints in the alleyway," Esposito finished. "Half the city's homeless could have been down there, and they all dropped trash."

"Chase CSU anyway," Kate said. "Anything that looks out of the ordinary."

"A lot of their guys are down with the 'flu."

"I know it's hard, but anything they can do."

"On it." He walked away, beckoning to one of the men wearing the navy blue coveralls, CRIME SCENE UNIT stencilled clearly across his back.

Kate glared moodily at the body it was zipped out of sight, and shook her head slowly. "Why do I feel like I should be able to see the solution?"

"It'll be easier when we find out where she was tortured," Rick said, trying to be more encouraging than he felt.

"Tortured?" She turned to glare at him.

"Fingers don't tend to point in the direction hers were."

Lanie nodded. "Some of those breaks were definitely pre-mortem."

"So someone wanted to know what she knew." Kate pursed her lips. "Except what could she know that they didn't?"

"There's one possibility." Rick glanced back to where Lanie's techs were loading the body into the 'morguemobile'.

Kate sighed. "I'm going to hate this, aren't I?"

"Probably."

"Go on. Depress me."

He smirked, just a little. "Okay."

"Before you get into the theorising," Lanie put in quickly, "I have to get Sarah back to my table, see if I can find out anything else."

"Let me know if you do," Kate said.

"Don't I always?"

"Mostly."

Lanie raised an eyebrow, but forbore to comment, instead climbing into the front seat of the coroner's van, which squealed away.

"Do they ever get ticketed?" Rick asked, watching the tail light disappear.

"They think they're NASCAR drivers." Kate gave him a calculating look. "Go on, then."

"What?" Rick asked, turning to her.

"With the depressing."

He smiled, just a little. "At a guess I'd say they thought she knew where Stanford and Osaki put the rest of the artwork."

"The rest."

"Come on, Kate. You think the same. There's no reason for snatching Sarah Richardson unless our killers didn't get all the goods."

For a long moment she gazed at him, and he wondered what was going on behind her eyes. He'd followed her enough to understand a lot of what made Kate Beckett tick, but there were still corners he hadn't been around, cupboards with hidden nooks and crannies he couldn't wait to go through.

"I hate to say it, but I agree." She sighed. "Come on. I've got her address – let's see if her apartment has any of the answers."

"Lead on."

She paused a moment, unable not to push him just a little. "Unless you want to go back to the reception?"

Rick's face closed down. "No. There's nothing back there for me."

"Not even Maggie?"

"She's got Congreve."

Kate ignored the bitterness in his tone, and strode back to her car, knowing he was at her heels.

* * *

The drive to Sarah Richardson's apartment did nothing to improve Rick's temper as he sat staring out of the window at the cars and lit shop windows flying by.

Eventually Kate had had enough, and said, "If you're going to be acting like a puppy who's had his favourite toy snatched away for much longer, I'm taking you back to the pound."

"What?" He turned to stare at her, then narrowed his eyes. "Oh. Funny. And I'm not in a mood."

"Castle, there's a little black cloud over your head. And we're still in the car."

"I'm fine."

"It's Maggie, isn't it?"

"No." At her raised eyebrow he amended, "Maybe."

"You're jealous."

"I'm not!"

"Jealous of James Congreve."

He managed the affronted look really well, then spoiled it by pouting. "He's not good enough for her."

"Would any man be?"

He opened his mouth to make some smart ass comment, then paused. "Probably not," he admitted grudgingly.

"It's okay, Castle," Kate said. "She's your friend. You're going to look out for her."

"I just ..." He twisted in his seat to look at her fully. "What do we know about him?"

"Who, Congreve?"

"Maybe we should be considering him as a suspect."

She laughed. "Okay, now that's probably a step too far."

"Why? He knows all about the Penn Station robbery, recognises way too many of the pieces of art for my liking, and he has a lot of contacts. I think we should get Ryan and Esposito to look into him."

"Into James Congreve."

He nodded firmly. "Yes."

"Okay, now I know you're jealous. And guilty."

"Guilty?"

"You're the reason he was there with her tonight. If you hadn't stayed on the case, she wouldn't be tempted."

"Tempted?" He scoffed. "There's nothing about Congreve that's ... temptable."

"Is that a word?"

"It is now." He had that stubborn little boy look on his face, the one that could be equally adorable and annoying.

"Castle, unless Congreve is older than he looks, he wasn't even born when the robbery went down." She went on quickly, pre-empting anything he was going to say, "And as it happens I did take a look into his background. Apart from three parking tickets and a couple of minor infractions when he was a kid, he's clean."

"Minor infractions." Rick grabbed at the words. "It's just a short step from that to murder."

She stared at him. "Can you hear yourself? Are you actually taking notice of the words coming out of your mouth?"

For once he looked embarrassed. "Okay. Maybe not murder. It's just ... Kate, it's Maggie."

"And she's a grown woman. She has the right to choose who she wants to be with." She couldn't help the smile. "What are you going to be like when Alexis wants to get married?"

"Maggie's not marrying the man!"

"She might. He's good looking. Intelligent. Successful. What woman wouldn't want to marry a man like that?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, then sighed loudly. "Okay, Kate, you've made your point. There's no need to rub salt any deeper."

"I'm just saying trust Maggie to choose wisely. And no matter what happens, she's never going to stop being your friend. Unless you're planning on being even more stupid than you were tonight."

"I wasn't planning on it, no."

"Good." She braked to a halt. "And we're here."

* * *

Sarah's apartment was small, and could probably have fitted lock, stock and barrel into the living area of Rick's loft. Somehow the developers had managed to cram a living room, bedroom, bathroom and kitchen into the space, and only the large windows gave any impression of expanse.

The building supervisor, looking the epitome of sartorial elegance in a white vest and striped pyjama bottoms, accessorised with an open, blotchy pink towelling dressing gown that had something unidentifiable spilt down the front, had opened the door for them. "She's a nice lady," he kept saying. "Pays her rent on time, never any trouble. Goes to work, comes home, recycles her garbage like she's supposed to."

"Does she get many visitors?" Kate asked, pulling on a pair of blue latex gloves.

"There's a guy once in a while. 'Bout the same age as her. And he brought another feller occasionally. Chinese or something. They'd order in, pizza mostly, and spend the evenings listening to music. Not that I keep a check on any of my tenants' comings and goings," he added quickly, giving just the opposite impression.

"Do you have her details?" Kate asked, moving in front of him to block the entrance. "References, next of kin, that sort of thing?"

"Sure. Want me to get them for you?"

"That would be helpful, thanks."

"No problem." The supervisor hurried away, hitching his pyjama pants an inch or two higher as he disappeared around the corner.

"Is her application form really going to help?" Rick wanted to know.

"No. But I don't think that man's even heard of deodorant."

Rick grinned and followed her into the apartment.

Kate flicked on the lights, and then sighed deeply. The place was a mess.

"Do you think someone got here first?" Rick asked.

"I don't know," Kate admitted, holding out a second pair of gloves. "Put these on, just in case."

"I've got my own," he said, tweaking some from his pocket.

"Don't tell me, you were a boy scout."

"Be prepared? No. You're just a good teacher."

Kate didn't smile, just stepped delicately over the abandoned magazines and mail strewn haphazardly over the floor, hearing him snap the latex gloves unnecessarily. "Just don't move anything too much."

"I know what I'm doing." Rick looked down at his foot, wondering what was stuck to the sole, then grimaced slightly as he realised it was a used tissue. As surreptitiously as possible, he rubbed it on the carpet, checking quickly to make sure his partner hadn't noticed, before turning his attention back to the rest of the room. Plates littered with the remains of toast, mugs with congealed soup still lying in the bottom, DVDs with their discs showing like silver petticoats ... all the detritus of a modern life was here. "She's a Spielberg fan," he commented, nodding down towards the bright plastic covers of ET, Raiders of the Lost Ark and Jurassic Park. "His more accessible works."

"She had taste." Kate let her eyes roam across the mess. "You know, I don't think it's been searched."

"How can you tell?"

"My experience-honed detective skills."

"Really? I thought it was being a woman."

"Are you suggesting I'm like this at home?"

"Not if I want to get out of here alive."

She smiled but said, "I think she was doing exactly what she said, sitting around being sick." She touched an empty pack of Oreos with her toe. "I doubt she felt like tidying up, but we'll get CSU up here, to be on the safe side."

"When?" Rick shrugged at her glare. "Like Esposito said, a lot of the team's down with the flu."

She ignored him. "And we'll have someone keep an eye on the place, just in case the killers decide to take a look anyway."

"Good idea." He crossed to the window. "Hey, you can see the original crime scene from here," he said, pushing the curtain to one side and peering out. The warehouse opposite was dark, but he knew it was where Oliver Stanford's body had been found.

"Technically it's not a crime scene," Kate corrected, flicking through some opened envelopes. "It looks like Sarah wasn't quite the good little tenant the building super thought. She's maxed out on her credit cards, and there's more than a couple of red bills here."

"Maybe she was passing on information for money."

"How did you get from torturing her to working for the bad guys?" Kate wanted to know.

"Maybe there's two lots of bad guys. Each of them after the stuff. And she's a pawn in their increasingly deadly game."

"Next you'll be saying she was a CIA plant, investigating organised crime."

His eyes lit up. "Hey, now, that's not a bad idea."

"It's a terrible idea." Putting the envelopes back she straightened up. "You know, I don't think we'll get any further tonight."

"You okay?"

"I'm tired. I want to go to bed."

"Is that an offer, Detective?"

Again she ignored his comment – sometimes it was the safest thing to do. "It's late. The guys can go through all this stuff in the morning."

"Tell them to wear masks," Rick said, sidestepping yet another pile of snotty tissues.

* * *

Having negotiated the building supervisor – who'd tried to make an impression by putting on a dirty shirt under his robe – and taking Sarah Richardson's details, they hurried back to the car, the night air frosting in front of their mouths.

"You sure you don't want to go somewhere for coffee?" Rick asked.

"No. Too tired." She fumbled for her keys, her gloves making her hands a little less than smooth.

"How about a burger? Something to eat before –"

"Castle. Go home."

"Yes." Still he paused, his hands thrust deep into his overcoat pockets.

She knew why he was procrastinating, and while she understood she wasn't about to let him get away with it. "Don't be an idiot. Go and apologise to Maggie – and I mean properly," she added quickly, seeing him about to snap a response. "And get some sleep. Otherwise you won't be in any fit state to formulate more of those unlikely theories of yours."

His lips finally twitched. "You mean like how it wasn't the storm that did for the barge, but a giant octopus?" he asked tentatively. "Dragging the truck to its watery doom, wrapped in an unbreakable, tentacled embrace?"

Kate smiled. "Yes. Those."

"It's not that unlikely."

"When was the last time you saw an octopus in the East River?"

"New Year's Eve, 1992."

"And how many margueritas had you had?"

"It was tequila, and I don't actually remember." He looked a little smug.

"Well, I can assure you there are no octopuses."

"Octopi."

"Whatever." She shook her head, wondering ruefully if he'd ever get out of the habit of correcting her. Probably not. And she wasn't quite sure what she'd do it he ever did. "Come on. I'll drop you off."

"Thanks." He headed around the car, then turned back. "Can I drive?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"If you think I'm going to let a man who sees huge fish in the East River handle my car, think again." She opened the driver's door.

"Is that a euphemism for something else? 'Handle my car'?" he teased.

"No." She climbed in.

"Pity." He joined her. "And anyway, an octopus isn't a fish."

"Then what is it?"

"A cephalopod."

"A what now?"

"Something like that."

Their idle bickering continued as Kate pulled the car smoothly away from the kerb.

* * *

Rick let himself quietly into the loft apartment, not surprised to find the all lights off apart from the ones over the kitchen area and the warm glow from the flames of the fire. Quickly divesting himself of his coat and gloves, he headed for the note prominently displayed on the counter.

'_Dad, there's sandwiches in the fridge, de-caff in the pot, and a message from Paula on the phone wanting you to call her back about the deal. See you in the morning. Love, Alexis._' There was a PS. '_Get some sleep._'

He smiled. Even when she was away in the depths of dreamland his daughter was looking after him. He got the plate out of the fridge and divested it of its clingfilm cover, pouring himself a large mug of coffee before taking both to the couch. Settling down, he put his feet up on the coffee table and took a huge mouthful of sandwich. Mmn, thick-cut beef with pickles. Just what he needed.

Chewing happily, he let his mind wander over the case.

Kate was right, he knew. There was something they should be able to see, something so big, so simple, that it would make all the bits fall into place, untwisting the tangled threads and laying them out in a straight line. There was no doubt the two cases were linked – 1963 might be more than his lifetime ago, but the theft of the artworks in the first place was definitely connected to the deaths of Stanford and Oaski, and now to Sarah Richardson. He didn't really believe she was in the pay of the bad guys: like Kate had said, she was living to the edge of her income, and there'd been no sign in her apartment of extra money. Even the TV had been old, and the DVD player wasn't new either.

Whether she was an innocent, though ... no, that he wasn't prepared to go with. She'd definitely known something she hadn't told them, and that had probably led to her death.

He had to smile slightly as he put the now empty plate on the table. It was a plot device he tried to avoid as it was something of a cliché, but in this case it was true – if she'd been more forthcoming then she'd probably be alive and sniffing right now.

A yawn crept up on him and he let it rip, his mouth so wide he heard his jaw click. Putting his head back, he felt his eyes begin to close, and his last conscious thought was that he'd apologise to Maggie in the morning, then maybe beat seven hells out of James Congreve just for the fun of it.

Up on the second level of the condo Alexis snuggled down under the blankets, only her red hair peeking out, fast asleep and dreaming of beaches and boys. In the room next door Martha slept as flamboyantly as she did everything else in her life, spread across the mattress under her exotic covers, her eyemask slightly skewed on her face, a light snore emanating from her nostrils.

And in Maggie's room the lights from the city that never sleeps cast an orange bar across the bed, empty and cold.


	14. Chapter 14

Rick strode into the bull pen, determined not to show anything out of the ordinary, nodding a greeting at Karpowski and Velasquez for verisimilitude.

"Morning." He put down one of the two takeaway cups of coffee down on the desk next to Kate's hand.

"Morning. Sleep well?"

"Fine." He sat down in his normal chair.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she picked up her cup. "Do you want to try that again?" she asked.

"Try what?"

"Telling me what the problem is."

"There's no problem." He sipped his coffee, feeling the heat burning a welcome warmth down into his belly.

"Okay." Kate did the same, then went back to the file. "How's Maggie?"

"Fine, I guess."

"You guess?"

"She didn't come home last night!" His lips tightened shut but it was too late. Damn. He berated himself. He hadn't meant to be this easy to crack.

Kate sat back in her chair, cradling the paper cup in her hands. "Really."

He made himself shrug. "I'm not worried. I expect she stayed with Congreve."

"Could you get a bit more venom into his name?" Kate shook her head. "I don't think I quite got how you really feel about him."

He pointedly ignored her, just took far too large a mouthful of coffee, almost gagging in the process before he could swallow it down. He didn't dare look at the amused expression on her face.

The morning had started out so well, too. Alexis had woken him on her way out to school, and he'd staggered into the kitchen to be met by the sight of his mother in full warpaint, ready to go off and spend the day with Chet.

"Morning, darling." She turned the page in the Ledger. "You look like something the cat dragged in."

"Late night."

"So I gathered. What time did you fall into bed?"

He walked around her and stared into the fridge before closing the door again and turning to the percolator. "I got in about two," he admitted. "I fell asleep on the couch, and the paper arriving woke me, so I suppose I got to bed around ... four-thirty?"

She pushed the cream and sugar towards him. "Then you're going to be needing this."

"Thanks." He made a mug just the way he liked it, then glanced towards the stairs. "Maggie still asleep?"

She gave him an odd look. "I'm not sure." Folding the Ledger carefully back into shape, she added, "Shouldn't you be getting ready for the office?"

"The office." Rick shook his head even as he stretched. "That makes me sound like any normal person."

"You? Normal?"

He rubbed his hands over his face and chuckled. "Not since I was about five."

"Not even then, believe me." She held out the paper. "Here. There's an interesting article on a body pulled from the Hudson."

"Really?" He took it, carrying it to the couch where he sat down, mug in one hand, paper on his knees.

"Mmn. Norman espouses his view, yet again, that there are water-breathing cannibals living at the bottom of the river."

Rick grinned. Norman Grayson, the resident kook columnist on the New York Ledger, could always be relied upon to bring a somewhat skewed viewpoint to the day's news, and happened to be one of his mother's old flames. "Maybe he's right."

"There are more things in heaven and earth ..." Martha intoned, picking up her coat and purse. "Damn, I forgot my gloves," she added, heading for the stairs.

"Give Maggie a shout, will you?" Rick asked, leaning backwards enough so he could see her. "Tell her I want to talk to her."

Martha paused. "Richard ..."

"What?"

"Maggie didn't ... come back last night."

He turned in his seat. "She didn't ... Mother, you were supposed to be looking after her."

"I think James Congreve was doing that all too well." Martha crossed the apartment to stand over him. "She ... went off with him. When the press junket ended."

Rick's open mouth closed with an audible snap. "I see."

"No." She leaned down, her hand on his shoulder. "I don't think you do. Why don't you give her a call?"

"Why don't you give her a call?" Kate's voice, unwittingly echoing his mother, drew him back to the present.

He wiped a couple of drops of coffee from his chin. "If she wants to talk to me, she can."

Kate sighed. "No wonder you and your relationships never go anywhere." She got up to face the murder board.

"_My_ relationships?" He followed her. "You want to give me advice on _my_ relationships?"

She held up a hand. "I wouldn't presume."

"Well, for your information, _my_ relationship with Maggie is just fine."

"Good." She crossed her arms, tapping her chin with her finger.

"It's _fine_," he insisted.

"I'm glad for you."

He dropped to the edge of the desk. "Or it will be. Once I apologise again."

She looked at him. "Castle, it wasn't all your fault. I should have ... I knew how much it meant to Maggie for you to be there for her. I should have made sure you were. I suppose I've ... got used to you tagging along all the time."

"Thank you for damning me with that faint praise."

Her lips twitched. "And I wouldn't worry. Maggie's forgiven you for two marriages and God knows how many girlfriends ... I think she'll forgive you this."

"I hope so."

The fervency in his tone made Kate look at him strangely, but whatever she had been about to say was interrupted by Esposito.

"Yo," the dark faced detective said. "We've got the details on Sarah Richardson's last call." He handed six stapled sheets to Kate, the last entry circled in yellow highlighter.

"Made just after she left the precinct," Kate said quietly. "Who to?"

"One William Bonney."

"Billy the Kid?" Rick couldn't stop himself in time.

"That wasn't even his real name," Kate said, not even bothering to glance at him.

"Except this one _was_ also known as Billy the Kid," Esposito added, holding out a rap sheet. "Petty theft, joy-riding, possession ... if he didn't look like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth he'd be doing time."

Kate had taken the sheet, and Rick moved to see over her shoulder. "I see what you mean," she said, studying the face in front of her.

Rick stared at the mug shot. "I know him."

This time she looked at him. "You do?"

"Not the name. The face." His eyes screwed up as he tried to remember. "Billy ... Billy ..." His face cleared. "Elysium."

"What?"

"He works as a waiter at Elysium. I saw him when I went to ... visit ... Duncan." His voice trailed off at the expression on her face.

"Duncan Monaghan."

"Yes." He tried pre-emptive meekness. "I only saw him for a minute."

"And?"

"Duncan said he lives with his mother, and is a distant cousin." He shrugged. "That was it."

She gazed at him a moment longer, making him squirm a little, then she turned back to Esposito. "Bring him in. If nothing else he was the last person to speak to Sarah – he might know where she was heading."

"On it." He strode back to his desk, collecting his coat and Ryan on the way.

Kate was staring at the murder board again. "Have you spoken to Monaghan yet?"

"About the 1963 end? No, not yet."

"Then don't."

He was surprised. "I thought you agreed he was a good source."

"Maybe too good." She took a deep breath, holding it for a long while, before saying on the exhalation, "There's something about him I don't trust."

"You haven't even met him."

She glanced sharply at him. "And if I had?"

"You'd trust him even less," Rick admitted.

"I'm not saying he's involved personally, but ..."

Rick knew to trust her instincts – he'd had plenty of evidence over the past couple of years that she knew what she was talking about, and it wasn't just because she was a well-trained cop. "No problem." He smiled.

She looked him up and down. "Feeling better now?"

He chuckled. "Nothing keeps me down for long."

Kate's phone rang. "I've noticed," she said drily, picking it up. "Beckett." She listened for a moment, her eyes not straying from Rick. "Sure. Now?" Again a pause. "Fine. We're leaving now." She hung up and picked up her coat. "Come on."

"Where to?"

"Lanie has something for us." She led the way to the elevator.

"Can I drive?"

"Have I ever said yes?"

"Not yet."

"Then let's not break the habit."

* * *

"Okay, Lanie what do you ... oh." Kate paused, surprised to see both MEs they worked with. Lanie Parish and Sidney Perlmutter were standing side by side, equidistant between two covered tables.

"Are you planning some kind of double act?" Rick asked, a smile on his face.

"Coincidence," Lanie insisted. "That's all."

Perlmutter just crossed his arms.

"O-kay." Kate composed herself. "So ... why the call?"

Lanie glanced at Perlmutter then pulled the top of the sheet back on the gurney next to her. "Sarah Richardson. Cause of death, extreme blunt force trauma, i.e. being hit by a truck."

Kate looked down at the corpse, once again struck by the way most bodies – if they weren't actually decaying in some way – always looked like they were just asleep, even with the abrasions from hitting the road. Her mother must have looked like that – not that her father let her do the identification. Then her eyes drifted to the stitches closing the autopsy incisions, and she forced her mind back to business. "Did it cause all these injuries?"

"No." Lanie moved the sheet to one side, revealing Sarah's arm. "All of the fingers on her left hand were broken pre-mortem, probably by being bent backwards." She let the sheet drop. "Her left ear-drum's perforated too."

"Someone hit her?"

"Hard."

"So she _was_ tortured."

"I'd say so."

"She couldn't tell them anything," Rick put in, his head slightly on one side.

"What makes you say that?" Kate asked, her eyebrows raised slightly.

"The amount of injuries." He nodded towards Sarah's hand. "I'd tell them whatever they wanted if they broke even one of my fingers, wouldn't you?"

For once Kate didn't jump in to agree. Rick might sound like he was a coward, but that wasn't her experience at all. Instead she said, "Maybe she managed to get away before she could give it up."

"Not something I can help you with, honey," Lanie put in.

"Anything else?" Kate asked.

"Not from me." Lanie took a step back, allowing Perlmutter centre stage.

The other ME swept the sheet from the second table, in turn displaying a skeleton laid out like a very bad case of anorexia.

"It looks like one of those forensic programmes," Rick murmured to Kate.

"It's just bones, Castle." She noted the glint of gold in the jaw. "I take it this is from the cab of the truck."

Perlmutter nodded. "Male, approximately thirty years old, and before you ask, no, no chance of any usable DNA."

"I wasn't going to." Kate moved closer. "And I'm presuming he drowned. Or can't you tell that?"

"No."

"I didn't think so."

"No. I mean he didn't drown." Perlmutter picked up one of the vertebra lined up under the skull. "He was stabbed, in the throat, from the front."

Kate's jaw dropped, but it was Rick who spoke.

"You're joking."

"I don't joke," Perlmutter said.

"You know, I thought that about you."

"So he was dead before the truck went down?" Kate mused.

Perlmutter nodded. "That would be my opinion."

"Cleaning house?" Rick countered. "Keeping costs down?"

Kate shrugged then turned to the MEs. "Are you sure the damage couldn't be attributed to tides? Or when the truck went down?"

"I'm sure," Perlmutter said firmly.

"I agree," Lanie put in. "Whatever killed him went deep enough to nick the front of the cervical vertebrae. I checked with the divers who collected the bones; there wasn't anything in the cab that could account for that kind of injury."

"What would?"

"Something sharp. An ice-pick, maybe, or a long thin knife."

"So we've got another murder," Rick said softly.

"To add to the list." Kate shook her head. "Which seems to be getting longer by the day." She looked at the two colleagues, keeping the sigh inside. "Thanks."

"Whoa, now, wait there, girl," Lanie said quickly. "We're not finished."

This time Kate let the sigh flow from her lips. "Don't tell me there's another corpse."

"No, same one." Lanie looked surprisingly smug.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense."

Perlmutter picked up a file, holding it out. "Here."

"What's this?"

A smile almost twisted his lips. "Take a look."

Kate opened the folder. "Is this ..."

"Mr Bones."

Rick pointed at Perlmutter. "You made a joke."

"Castle." Kate got his attention. "You will want to see this."

He peered at the contents and his eyes widened. "That's ... amazing."

"You get what you pay for," Perlmutter commented. "In my day we had to wait weeks for it to be done by hand." He did the almost-smile again. "And they'll be billing you."

"That's fine, fine," Rick said distractedly. He was staring at what was probably a computer generated image, but so lifelike he almost expected it to blink. A man in his thirties, black hair, brown eyes, a long nose and surprisingly delicate cheekbones, with a scar over the right eye in the shape of an inverted Y. His lips were parted, showing the gold canine. "Black hair?" he asked, just for something to say.

"The forensic artist determined from the shape of the skull that his ancestry was probably European, but not Nordic," Perlmutter explained. "There's another option with brown hair in the file."

"And the scar?" Kate inquired.

Perlmutter picked up the skull. "Probably when he was a child," he said, touching a mark on the bone. "He hit or was hit by something that left a specific contusion. Any harder and it would probably have cracked the bone, but it would definitely have broken the skin."

Rick was still staring at the face, and a trickle like ice water made its way down his back. "I've seen him before. I think."

"Like Billy Bonney?" Kate asked.

"Who?" Lanie wanted to know but was ignored.

"I don't know." His brow furrowed. "It's just a feeling."

Kate waited for a moment to see if he was going to come up with anything else, then turned back to the MEs. "Thank you, guys. This has been very helpful."

"No problem," Lanie said, smiling. "But try not to turn up any more bodies, okay? I've got enough people out with the 'flu."

"I'll try not to." Kate led the way out of the lab into the corridor, just as her cellphone chirped at her. Slipping it from her pocket she thumbed it to answer. "Yes."

"_Yo, Beckett."_ It was Esposito_. "We're at Bonney's place, but he's not here."_

"How about Elysium? Castle says he works there."

"_We called on the way. They haven't seen him since yesterday afternoon."_

"We can try for a warrant for his apartment, but I doubt we'll get it. There just isn't enough evidence to suggest he's involved." She thought for a moment. "Head to Elysium anyway. Talk to the other waiters. They might have some idea where he could be."

"_Will do. And tell Castle he wasn't quite right. According to his neighbours Bonney doesn't live with his mother – she's in a private care facility in Queens."_

Kate closed the call then related the findings to Rick.

"Can't we get a court order for his phone?" he asked when she'd finished.

"With what evidence? A hunch?"

"Sarah called him. Her last call."

"And maybe she was ordering take out." Kate shook her head. "It's not enough, Castle."

He understood, even if he didn't like it. As an author he could cut corners, make his hero almost omnipotent, and somewhat amoral when it came to rules of evidence. He could make it easy. Only Kate wasn't a fictional character, and those corners could make the difference between a conviction and a killer walking free. "Then we keep looking," he said.

"It's what we do."

'_We'_. He liked that.

His own cell rang, and he felt a weight lift from his shoulders as the caller ID showed Maggie's smiling face. "Hey, Mags," he said warmly. "I was going to call you."

"_Um, it's not Maggie. It's James Congreve."_

The hairs lifted on the back of his neck. "Then what –"

"_I think you'd better get around to my apartment. Maggie's sick."_


	15. Chapter 15

"You heard what he said, Castle," Kate assured him as they waited for the elevator in the apartment building. "It's only the 'flu."

"I know." And it wasn't that Rick didn't believe James Congreve, but he really needed to see for himself.

The curator lived in an outwardly non-descript building just off First Avenue in midtown East, whose entry hallway had surprised them both with its sophisticated marquetry and art deco fittings. A doorman had rung upstairs for them, then pointed them towards the elevators at the rear of the long room.

"Anyone would think you were in love with Maggie," Kate went on, looking at him, the way his hands were still thrust in his overcoat pockets, but making a bet with herself that they were clenched into fists.

"I am," he admitted, then dropped his head. "But not in the way you think."

She wondered at the odd fluttering like butterflies in her stomach, but schooled her face into an encouraging expression. "Then how?"

He sighed heavily, then looked at her. "Not sure." He chuckled briefly, but there was no humour in it. "Crazy, huh?"

"Well, I could get Dr Holloway to chat to you, if you like."

The elevator doors arrived, and they stepped into its elegant mirrored interior, the glass etched in geometric patterns that somehow gave the impression of flowers.

"No," Rick said, as if he'd been honestly considering her offer. "I don't think the departmental psychiatrist will be able to help. I think it's better if I work it out myself." He pushed the button for the top floor, and the brushed bronze doors closed with a gentle whisper.

Kate nodded. "That's your prerogative." She peeled off her leather gloves, feeling compelled to add, "You know, it's okay to love your friends."

"Does that mean you love me?" he asked, a spark of his usual banter flickering into life.

"You do know I'm armed, don't you?" she retorted, her eyebrow lifting in query.

"You could always put me out of my misery."

"Out of mine, maybe. Yours is just far too satisfying to watch."

"You can be wounding."

"You have no idea."

There was a quiet ping and the elevator doors opened to reveal James Congreve waiting for them.

Kate smiled at him. "Hi." Then she looked a little closer. "Are you okay?"

James looked as harassed as she'd ever seen him – hair on end, t-shirt not tucked into his jeans ... he hadn't even shaved. "The doctor's just gone," he said without preamble.

"And?" she prompted, seeing the tightness around his eyes.

"It is just the 'flu, but she's not well. He's given her some medication and he'll be back this evening, to check up on her."

"Where is she?" Rick wanted to know.

"My bedroom."

Rick had the urge to push past the other man, but held it in check. "She asked you to call me?"

"No. In fact she told me not to." A half-smile flickered over his handsome face. "I think she's pretty angry with me for using her phone."

Kate felt the need to take charge. "Okay. James, it's no good us all standing discussing Maggie in the hallway, is it?"

He looked around, and seemed surprised to realise they were still in the corridor. "Oh. No." He started towards the far end. "This way."

A tall window poured watery sunlight into blocks across the deep, expensive brown carpet, milky glass uplighters adding faint pools on the high ceiling, but neither man took notice of the decor.

"So what happened?" Rick was asking.

"As soon as the press thing was over I offered to drive her home." James glanced over his shoulder. "_Your_ home, in case you were wondering."

"Then how come you didn't?"

"Because she didn't want to." He turned through an open door into a spacious, very light apartment, high windows on two sides of the corner.

"Why not?"

James span on his heel. "Are you honestly asking that question?"

Rick had the grace to look ashamed. "I know. Sorry. I just ..."

The bigger man nodded. "I understand. And I don't really know why. She wouldn't say." He paced further into the room, decorated tastefully in a variety of greens, from the palest apple to deep sage. "She tried to get me to take her to a nightclub."

He couldn't help it – Rick barked a laugh. "A nightclub?"

"Yes."

"She hates those places."

"I know. Which is why I didn't take her." His mouth curved, but quickly his lips set in a tight line again. "I think maybe she was already starting to feel ill, although that could have been the vodka."

"Vodka?"

"Dutch courage. For the press. Seeing as her first choice of escort hadn't turned up."

Kate could see Rick was getting more wound up, and the way his lips tightened was a bad sign. So in order to save someone from getting a bloody nose, particularly as James was bigger and more muscular, she put in quickly, "So you brought her back here?"

"It's all I could think of," James admitted. "We talked for a while, then she said she felt sleepy so I put her to bed." He held up a hand, gazing at Rick. "And before you ask, I slept out here on the couch."

Rick nodded, although in all honesty he didn't look convinced. "When did you realise she wasn't well?"

"Castle, he isn't a suspect," Kate murmured, but they both ignored her.

"I let her sleep in, but when she still hadn't surfaced by eleven I took her in a coffee." James swallowed. "She was burning up. I think she was hallucinating slightly, too. She thought I was you."

"And you called the doctor."

"Immediately." He almost laughed. "I didn't know she knew that sort of language."

"Maggie's pretty well-versed in curses." Rick's gaze flickered to the two closed doors opposite the small kitchen. "Where ..."

"In here." James strode past the dark green couch to the second door. At it he paused, turning the handle slowly and pushing it open just enough to peer in. "Are you awake?"

"Yes. You can come in." The voice was weak, but definitely Maggie.

James glanced at the other two and went inside.

Rick pushed past him and hurried to the bed, perching on the very edge.. "Mags. Are you insane?"

Maggie Maguire glared at him from the absolute white perfection of the pillow. "That's a nice way to apologise."

"Me?" His eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hair. "Me apologise?"

"That's fine then. I accept."

"What?"

"You apologised. I'm happy."

He had to smile, brushing a sweat-soaked lock of hair back from her forehead. "You're sick."

"That too." She coughed and sneezed at the same time, clutching a tissue to her mouth as she rolled away from him, determined not to pass on her germs. She finally managed to gasp out, "Oh, God. Kill me now."

"You're not that sick."

Falling back she affirmed, "Yes, I am. Feeling like Death warmed up would be an improvement." She glared at James over Rick's shoulder. "And don't think I've forgiven you for stealing my phone."

"Maggie, they'd have been wondering where you were," James pointed out.

"So?" She sneezed again, so hard that her whole body was wracked by it.

"Right, that's it." Rick stood up and reached into his pocket for his own cell. "I'll arrange an ambulance. Get you back home with us."

"That's not necessary," James insisted.

"All her things are back at the loft."

"Then I'll come and collect some."

Rick squared off, facing the taller man. "She needs someone to look after her."

"I'm taking some leave days. I'll be here as long as she needs."

"She _needs_ to be with people who love her!"

"You think she isn't?"

"That's it," Maggie said, tossing the sheet from her body and swinging her legs slowly over the side of the bed, making it clear she was wearing little more than her panties and a yellow t-shirt that was far too big for her. "I'm going to check into a hotel."

"No –"

"Mags –"

Both men tried to speak over each other.

"I'm not having you argue about me." She stood up, swaying. "It's ridiculous." She took a step forward and promptly collapsed.

Rick went to catch her but James was quicker, wrapping his arms around her before she could hit the floor.

"So not a good idea," he murmured, picking her up with ease and laying her gently onto the bed. With unexpectedly tender hands he re-covered her with the sheet before cupping her cheek in his palm. "You always were stubborn."

"Shit," she said, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

"Maggie, if you want to go back with Rick, that's fine," James said softly. "Just don't do anything ... rash." He took a pristine linen handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed gently at her heated cheeks.

Rick watched in surprise. As much as he wished he'd been the one to catch her, to be the man looking after her, James certainly seemed to care. Maybe it wasn't just a one night's stand, a fling with a literary celebrity. Anyone who'd look after Maggie in this condition must actually have strong feelings for her.

He saw Maggie smile through her tears, and although the familiar spike of jealousy stabbed him in the gut, perhaps it was tempered, just a little.

Kate, leaning on the wall by the door, had to fight hard not to smile. As always Castle's emotions had played out on his face as clearly as if she was reading a page from one of his novels, and she relaxed just an inch. As much as she hadn't wanted the two men to fight – although it might have been worth it if they were naked, oiled down and had to wrestle in mud – at least maybe there was a sign of the air finally clearing between them.

"I think you should get some sleep," James was saying. "You know what the doctor said."

"Plenty of fluids and lots of rest," Maggie said, sniffing.

"That's right." He tugged the comforter a bit higher. "And keep warm."

"Hot."

"I don't care." James leaned down and placed a kiss on her forehead.

"You're no fun."

"Wait 'til you're better before you decide that."

Maggie smiled slightly. "I want you and Rick to go and talk for a while," she dictated. "Kate can keep me company."

The two men looked at each other, still wary, still circling each other like two alpha lions. Kate wondered if they were about to start marking their territory, and if she should do something to stop them. Or maybe encourage them, although in all honesty Castle never needed any encouragement to be an idiot.

Rick spoke first. "Okay, Mags. But I'll only be outside if you need me."

"Fine." She rubbed at her face, the way she did when she was tired, like a little girl with the backs of her hands.

"Don't keep her awake too long," James said softly, passing Kate as he went out of the door.

"I won't."

"If she needs anything ..." This time it was Rick showing his concern.

"I'll shout."

"Okay." He didn't sound convinced, but left the bedroom anyway.

"Close the door," Maggie requested.

"Don't want to listen to the fight?" Kate joked, doing as asked.

"They won't. Both of them are big softies at heart."

Kate chuckled. "Even James?"

"Teddy-bear." Maggie waved vaguely. "Come and sit down."

Crossing the room to the bed, Kate pulled one of the armchairs closer. "I hate getting the 'flu," she said conversationally. "I think sometimes it's worse than getting shot."

"Really?"

"Only sometimes. Usually when I've got the 'flu."

Maggie laughed but it turned into a cough. "I knew I was coming down with something," she admitted. "It wasn't just the press thing."

"One day the doctors will find a cure, then there'll be no excuse."

"No more duvet days ..."

"Won't that be awful."

Maggie smiled tiredly. "I doubt you take a day off you don't have to."

Kate shrugged. "I'm a cop."

"And I want to apologise."

The detective was surprised. "What for?"

"Over reacting. Last night." Her brow furrowed. "It was last night, wasn't it?"

"The press thing. Yes."

"I hate those things. And what with everything else ... Harrison, the plagiarism, feeling crappier by the minute ... I sort of ... well ... I probably said things I shouldn't have."

"Don't you remember?"

"Not entirely," Maggie admitted. "I didn't do anything stupid, did I?"

"You mean over and above offering to give lapdances to anyone who wanted?" At Maggie's wide-eyed stare she quickly added, "I'm kidding."

"Don't," Maggie pleaded. "I'm not well."

"As far as I'm concerned you didn't say anything untoward at all." Kate took her hand, feeling the clammy flesh of Maggie's palm. "And I'm sorry for not making sure Castle was there on time."

"You've obviously never tried to force Rick to do something he really didn't want to, did you? You've never had to – you're far too attractive, and he's like a hyperactive puppy." She smiled, then a cough overtook her again, and the sound filled the room.

In a moment Kate was next to her, lifting her up to a sitting position, the glass of water ready by her lips. As the paroxysm subsided Maggie took a sip, then a second before laying back on the pillow. "Thanks."

"No problem."

"You should have been a nurse."

"I did think about it once. Before my mother was killed." Kate knew Rick had told Maggie all about it,

"So instead you became a cop."

"It ... seemed like the right thing to do."

"What did your father think about that? About your decision?"

"He wasn't too thrilled. But I think he understood." Kate smiled. "He's my dad, after all."

"You don't know about my father, do you?"

Kate was phased momentarily by the apparent non-sequitur, but said, "No, I don't believe I do."

"Rick does, of course, and Martha, even Alexis to some degree." Maggie took a deep breath, as much as she could. "My father was career army, so we moved around a lot. My mother was much more of a free spirit, so I have no idea how they got together. Not that it lasted. When I was eight she was killed in a car accident."

"I'm sorry." Kate didn't have to say she understood how that felt.

"Mmn. Me too." Licking her lips Maggie went on, "I don't really know how it affected him … he never really showed emotion. All I know is that he'd believed in discipline before that, only now it got worse, especially with me, so when I went to college I ... I suppose I rebelled."

"I think we all did to some degree."

"I suppose. But I started hanging around with people I shouldn't, just because I could."

"And Castle was one of them."

"No. He was actually pretty quiet, spent most of his time writing. I suppose that's why we became friends, at least at first. We both wanted to write for a living. Anyway, one day I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I hadn't done anything, but I was the one who got caught." She studied the ceiling as if it could tell the future. Or possibly it was showing her the past. "The college campus called my father, and he came up."

"To look after you," Kate said, knowing what her own dad would do.

"No." Maggie laughed, but it was as brittle as glass, and she had to swallow another cough. "Almost exactly the opposite. He told them to do what they wanted with me, and he advised them to prosecute me to the full extent of the law."

Kate was appalled. "He didn't."

"Then he took me to one side, told me he wasn't surprised, that I was too much like my mother." Maggie shook her head. "That was the last time I ever spoke to him."

"Oh, Maggie."

"Anyway, it soon became the talk of the campus, and Rick heard. He knew who the real culprits were, and went to see them. I don't know what he said, but they came forward, told the truth, and I got out of things with just a reprimand on my record." She smiled at last. "I didn't think anyone would do that for me."

"He's ... different."

"That he is."

"So that was when you got together?"

"Sort of. Within a couple of weeks we'd moved in together, taking an apartment off campus, but it was a lot longer before we ... well ..."

Kate had to smile. "I'm surprised you waited."

"Oh, believe me, I'm astonished we ever did. And that's how it stayed until ..."

"Kyra."

"Kyra." Maggie was silent for a moment, then said quietly, "What he is, what you see ... that all started after. It's a shell, something he created so he didn't get hurt like that again. Then Meredith on the rebound, Alexis …" She sighed. "Anyhow, the point of all this is that it wasn't the first time Rick's been there for me, my own personal crutch, and I suppose I've come to rely on him. And maybe I should have grown out of it."

"He really was angry with himself, you know."

"I know." Maggie turned her head enough so she could look the younger woman directly in the face. "Will you tell him I'm sorry?"

"I think he knows."

"Probably." She gazed for a moment, then said, "So you and Rick … any further on?"

"Maggie, it's complicated."

"You care for him, he cares for you. It's easy."

"No, it isn't. Castle and me … there's stuff going on you don't know about."

"Want to bet?"

"Not really." Kate shook her head. "Maggie, honestly, it's –"

"You say it's complicated again and I swear I'll get out of this bed and come and hit you, however long it takes to crawl there."

"Maggie –"

"Kate. It's simple."

"No, it isn't." Kate pursed her lips, blew out a breath between them. "I … don't want to be just another notch on his bedpost."

"It's not obligatory, you know." Maggie smiled slightly. "You think that by keeping the tension up you'll keep his interest?"

"I'm not as calculating as that."

"No?" Maggie struggled to sit up, Kate helping her and plumping the pillows behind her. "Thanks. Again."

"You're welcome."

"Kate, let him in. Try him on for size. I think you'd be surprised."

"He's not a pair of shoes."

"He can be just as supportive. And just as painful." She laughed at her own joke. "Hey, I think the tablets the doc made me take are kicking in."

"Then you get some sleep."

"And you don't be so afraid." Despite her best efforts Maggie's eyes were starting to close. "I made a mistake. You don't have to."

"You've got James."

"He's my friend."

"Mmn."

Maggie yawned again. "Wha's tha' mea'?" she mouthed around it.

Kate shook her head, grinning. "Here you are talking about me and Castle, and I could say the same things to you."

"You're wrong."

"Really? Maggie, you're going to have a little time to think about things. And take a good look at James. You'll see."

"Ditto, Detective Beckett," Maggie said, giving up the struggle and settling back. "Ditto."


	16. Chapter 16

As they left the bedroom, Rick and James kept a discreet distance from each other.

"Would ... you like coffee?" the bigger man asked, running both hands over his hair, pushing it into some semblance of order.

"Sure." Rick wandered to the window. "Nice view."

"How do you take it?"

"What, the view?"

"Your coffee."

"Cream and sugar."

"Fine." James disappeared into the small kitchen, adding over his shoulder, "Make yourself comfortable."

"Thanks." Rick smirked, considering the curator had given him permission to poke around.

Wandering to one of the large windows, he looked out, grudgingly admitting it _was_ a good view. The position of the apartment meant he could see down the avenue virtually to the end, the buildings getting smaller and smaller in an almost perfect example of perspective.

Under the window, probably so Congreve could use the view as inspiration, was an antique desk, the roll top pushed back to show its disembowelled contents spilling out. Letting his innate sense of writerly research – otherwise known as his insatiable curiosity – take over, Rick started to take a look inside.

Letters jostled side by side with bills, at least one of which was a final demand. He allowed a slight smile to lift the corner of his mouth. At least Congreve wasn't quite as perfect as he appeared.

In the next pigeonhole were odd travel brochures for destinations as diverse as Bali, Germany and Argentina. Some of them had notes hand-written in blue pen, with dates and prices. Most of them also had two lines scored through the additions, but if they were rejects they hadn't been thrown away. On the desktop itself was a folded map, its contours showing a mountain range. This time the notes were in red pen with arrows pointing towards three crosses in the foothills, like something out of Indiana Jones. Rick smiled. Maybe X really _did_ mark the spot.

His fingers continued walking. Aha, a diary. And not just a list of appointments or addresses, but a proper journal, this time in a mix of different pens, but all in the same neat handwriting. This time he chuckled – surely only pre-teen girls kept them. Then the laugh died strangled in his throat as he remembered Kate's assertion that so did _teenage_ girls who wanted to pull the wool over their father's eyes. He swallowed hard, telling himself, yet again, that Alexis wouldn't do that to him.

Attempting to keep his mind off his daughter's possibly all too Castle-like nature, he flicked through the pages, reading a line here and there. Mostly it was about the work Congreve was doing at the Museum, but there were introspective moments, fluid in their thought processes, with a touch of the poetical in parts. Rick knew some of them might well come back in his next book. That's what his brain was like, a sponge absorbing odd moments and words, situations and people, until he figuratively squeezed it out on his laptop.

A handful of photos fell to the floor from the back of the diary, and he quickly picked them up, glancing towards the kitchen. There was no sign of Congreve, so he took the opportunity to scan them. Five pictures, and somehow Rick wasn't surprised to see they were all of Maggie, and from the clothes obviously taken at the same event. What did astonish him was the last, where Maggie was joined by Congreve ... and himself. Richard Castle, world famous mystery novelist. He shook his head – it looked like she was right, that she _had_ introduced them, and he'd blanked it from his memory. Dr Holloway would probably have a field day with that. If Rick were ever crazy enough to tell him.

"Have you found anything else?"

Rick span on his heel, dropping the journal and photos back on the desk behind him. "What?"

"I asked if you'd found anything," James said, carrying a tray with two green and gold mugs, a tall glass cafetiere of coffee, a small matching jug and sugar bowl towards the dining table. "To do with the case?"

"Oh. Right." Rick gathered himself. "Some."

"Can you tell me about it?"

Rick glanced towards the bedroom door, but it was still closed. "Maybe." He patted the desk. "I was just admiring this. It's nice. Old?"

"Two hundred years, give or take. I don't use it much," James admitted, pouring the coffee. "The window's too much of a distraction. I keep meaning to move it, but just don't seem to get around to it."

"Where do you work, then?"

"I don't." James laughed at Rick's expression of surprise. "I try not to bring my work home. Unless it's for Maggie, of course. And if I do that I use the dining table."

"That's not good for your back."

"So I've discovered." James sat down at the very same table. "Maybe Maggie could take me in hand, make me more sensible."

"I don't think that's possible."

James raised his eyebrow at the plethora of possible meanings in Rick's answer, but decided to leave it for the moment. "You'd better add the cream and sugar yourself," he said instead. "I usually get it wrong."

"Thanks," Rick said, sitting down and doing just that.

"What was it you've found, then? Another lost painting?"

It wouldn't matter, Rick decided. A man dead nearly half a century was unlikely to complain if his picture was passed around. He pulled the computer print out from his pocket. "This. The face of the man in the driving seat of the truck at the bottom of the Hudson." He flattened it out and slid it across the wooden tabletop.

"There was a man in the truck?" James didn't quite squeak, but it was probably a close run thing.

"What was left of him. A wheelbarrow full of bones and some scraps of clothing."

James picked up his glasses from the open case on the table and perched them on his nose, studying the print-out. "And they did this from the skull?"

"Yes. A forensic artist. They're sending me the bill," Rick added, then sipped his coffee. "Hey, this is good."

"My own blend." James didn't lift his head. "I can bag some up for you, if you like."

"That'd be nice."

"You know, I think I know this face."

Rick was surprised. "I thought the same."

"Something I was reading, I think."

"Mmn."

James sat up, staring sightlessly into the corner of the room for perhaps half a minute. "Yes," he finally said, springing to his feet and hurrying to the bookshelves that lined one wall, peering over the top of his glasses. It was only the work of a moment to find the tome he wanted, but this time he dawdled back, flicking through the pages as he went.

"Well?" Rick prompted.

"Sorry?" James looked up, and Rick had the distinct impression the bigger man had forgotten he was there. "Sorry," he said again, holding the book up so Rick could see the title. _Carving up New York_, it said in stark white letters, with a smaller font stating _A History of Crime in the Big Apple_.

"Carl Leverwitt's book," Rick said, nodding. "I've got that. I was reading it only a day or two ago."

"I only bought it yesterday," James admitted, still flicking pages. "My interest was ... piqued."

"I use it for research." Rick shrugged. "Being a crime writer I need to know my subject."

"That you do." James had reached the table and sat slowly down. "I haven't had a chance to read it, but I did take a look through, and ... yes." He stabbed a finger at the page. "There."

Rick scooted his chair around to see a black and white photograph of three men, their arms around each other, smiling for the camera. They were in sharp suits, neatly fixed ties, their hair perfectly coiffed, but despite the amicable aspect of their similar features there was something dangerous about them, as if any minute their grins would turn to scowls, and the guns hidden under their jackets would come into play.

Looking closer, though, it seemed the middle man's smile was a little forced, which perhaps wasn't surprising, given the caption. _Albert, Vito and Gianni Viducci, the three sons of one of the city's minor crime families, on the occasion of Vito Viducci's marriage to Ariadne Malone._

Of course he'd seen it. After speaking to Duncan he'd pulled out half a dozen volumes on New York crime in the '60s, checking each one to see if they could back up the old man's story. To some degree they had, at least to the wedding being used in what turned out to be a futile attempt to stop the infighting, but there had been nothing about the works of art. Leverwitt, like the others, had been more interested in Carlo Gambino and the Five Families, not in two minor league Dons and their squabbles.

Now, though, Rick peered closer, studying the men either side of Vito, then concentrating on the one to his left. Shining black hair, pale eyes that appeared touched with more than a little madness ... and the glint of gold from one of his canines. "Gianni Viducci," he murmured. "I _knew_ I'd seen him before."

He looked up, seeing his own wide grin reflected on James's face. Then they both realised who they were smiling at, and sat back quickly.

"Yes," James said.

"Well done," Rick added. "You've got a good eye."

"It's something to do with being an art curator," James admitted, taking his time replacing his glasses in their case. "You have to know so much about so many artists ... you tend to soak up information like a sponge."

Rick coughed suddenly, hearing his own thoughts echoed back to him. "Yes. Yes, I suppose you do."

"I'm also a not bad judge of character, and I get the feeling there's a lot you haven't told me."

"It's an on-going investigation."

"And you don't trust me," James said astutely.

"I don't know you."

"Maggie does."

"Not all Maggie's friends are squeaky clean."

"No, I imagine they're not." James smiled again, this time just a curve of his lips. He nodded back towards the bookcase. "I've read all of Maggie's novels. I know who she's had to speak to, to deal with, to research what she's written. After all, that's how come I got to know her myself. And I agree, I'm not exactly squeaky clean. But then, somehow I don't think you are either."

Rick's mind tossed up the image of his jacket, the police file containing all the misdemeanours and on the verge of downright illegal activities he'd got away with because of who he was and who he knew. "Probably not."

James studied him, pretty much as Rick had studied Gianni Viducci, like a specimen under a microscope. Eventually he said, "I'm not going to hurt her."

Rick nodded slowly. "Better not. I know people who know people."

"Is that a threat?"

"More ... a suggestion."

James laughed. "It's up to her, you know. I'm not going to make her do anything she doesn't want to."

"Not many people can. Besides, I've known her a lot longer."

"Oh, I'm not going to disagree about that." His blue eyes, lighter in hue than Rick's, were impressively sincere. "And the truth is, you don't really want to have that kind of relationship with her. If you did, we wouldn't even be having this conversation."

"And you do?"

"Of course."

"You're in love with her?"

"From the first moment she walked into my office at the Museum with her thousand questions and interesting arguments." James smiled at the memory, his eyes turning from ice to the warmth of a summer sky.

Rick nodded. "If arguing was a sport at the Olympics she'd win a gold medal."

"You've got that right." James touched the scar on his cheek with his thumb, probably something of a nervous habit he didn't know he was perpetuating. "And whatever happens, you're always going to be her friend."

"Her best friend," Rick amended.

"Yes."

Rick had to chuckle. "Maybe we're more alike than I'd like to admit."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Probably for the best."

Rick's cellphone rang, and he tugged it free from his pocket. The number was withheld, according to the display, but he needed a little diversion, so he thumbed _answer_ and said, "Castle."

"_Richard. Would you like to explain why I've got two police officers going through one of my employees' lockers right now?"_ The Irish brogue was more noticeable than ever.

"Duncan." Rick could envisage the old man, his white hair indignant, tapping those well-manicured hands on the table at _Elysium_. "They are?" Rick asked, playing for time as he got up, moving away from James to give an impression of privacy.

"_You know they are, Richard. Billy is a good boy – why would they be wanting to talk to him?"_

'Tell the truth and shame the Devil,' his grandmother once told him. Might as well try it for once. "We think he might know something about a murder."

"_A murder."_ There was a pause as Duncan put two and two together. _"Something to do with what we talked about the other day."_

"I can't comment."

"_You don't have to."_ There was a heavy sigh. _"He didn't show up for work today. I'm presuming that's why."_

"Probably," Rick allowed.

"_I think maybe we need to talk again."_

"Have you remembered something new?"

"_Not really. But if we could chat, if you told me what you know, I have contacts, Richard. I can talk to some of them, see what they know."_

"No, Duncan. I don't think that's a good idea. They're ... dangerous."

"_I can look after myself."_

"I know you can." Rick's writer's memory tossed up half a dozen incidents the other man was rumoured to have been involved with, even if nothing was ever proved, and there were probably a lot more. Blood was said to have been shed on more than one occasion. "Humour me, Duncan. Maggie wouldn't like it if you got hurt."

"_That's true."_ Duncan laughed._ "By the way, tell her to come into the restaurant. I've got something I want her to try."_

"I will, as soon as she's better." Rick cursed himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth, because the old gangster jumped on them.

"_Better? Why? What's wrong with her?"_

"Just the 'flu. Nothing worse."

"_Has she seen a doctor?"_

"Yes, she has, so you don't have to worry. She's going to be fine."

"_I want to see her."_

"Not right now. Maybe in a day or two."

"_Then I'll send something around to tempt her appetite. I'm sure, if she's not well, she's not eating properly."_

"That's not necessary."

"_Necessary isn't the point."_ Duncan wasn't going to be put off. _"Some of her favourites. Maybe even a little of that peach dessert."_

Rick gave in. "She'd probably get out of her sick bed for that. Okay."

"_Good. I'll get someone to drop it off at your apartment."_

"She's ... ah ... not there."

"_Then where is she, Richard?"_

Rick suppressed the sigh. Only his mother could get more accusation into his full first name. "At a friend's. She's staying while she's not well."

"_Where? Give me the address."_

"Hang on." Rick covered the mouthpiece and looked at James. "It's an old friend of Maggie's – he wants to send something nice for her. Do you mind if I give him your address?"

James shrugged. "Go ahead."

"Thanks." Moving the cell back to his ear he said, "Duncan? Do you have a pen?" At the old man's affirmative, Rick reeled off the address. "James will be here."

"_James?"_

"The friend."

"_A male friend?"_

"Yes."

"_Is he good enough for her?"_

Rick looked at the curator, his strong jaw and masculine presence, and his pale eyes full of curiosity, not being able to hear both sides of the conversation. "Honestly, I think maybe he is."

"_Then that's fine. Tell him Garvey will be around in an hour."_

"Garvey?"

"_My driver. If I'm not allowed to come, at least he'll report back fully. And we need to talk, Richard. Soon."_

"Okay, Duncan." Rick said goodbye, ending the call and sliding the phone back into his pocket, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Castle?" It was Kate, having come out of the bedroom at some time during the conversation. "Who was that?"

Rick looked around at her. "Duncan Monaghan."

"Monaghan?" James exclaimed in surprise, getting to his feet.

"Do you know him?" Kate asked.

"No, no," James backpedalled. "The name sounds ... familiar. I'm just not sure where from."

"He owns a number of restaurants," Rick explained.

"Of course. _Elysium, Tantalus, Cerberus_ ... does he have a thing about Greek mythology?"

"More probably delusions of grandeur," Kate said, only half joking. "I am a bit surprised you know the names, though."

James grinned, taking years off him. "What can I say? I like my food."

She ran her eyes up and down his form. "Really."

Rick, attempting to derail the flirting, asked, "How's Maggie?"

"Asleep," Kate said, pulling her gloves back on. "The best thing for her."

"Good," James said, sounding relieved.

"Duncan's sending some goodies over," Rick added, picking up his own overcoat and shrugging into it. "To tempt her to eat."

Kate smiled. "You know, next time I get sick, I might just consider staying here, if this is the kind of care on offer."

"Any time," James said gallantly.

She laughed. "It's a date."

Rick bristled but didn't speak.

James showed them to the door. "Look, if I can be of any more help, please call me. One of the reasons I became interested in art was because of the stories behind the pictures, the puzzles ... and I'm going to be a captive audience for a few days if you want to bounce any ideas off me."

"You never know," Kate said, stepping out into the corridor. "And thanks for looking after Maggie."

"My pleasure."

"Yes," Rick added quickly, feeling Kate's elbow connect with his side. "Thanks."

"No problem."

"I'll ... drop by with some of her stuff, if that's okay."

"Checking up on me, Mr Castle?" James asked, an amused expression flitting across his face. "Making sure I don't take advantage?"

"More than likely, Mr Congreve."

"Then I'll be on my best behaviour." He smiled at Kate. "Detective," he said warmly, and closed the door.

"So what did Monaghan want?" Kate asked as they headed back towards the elevator.

"He's not exactly overjoyed about Ryan and Esposito turning Billy's locker over." Rick's clipped tone alerted her to a possible problem.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Want to try that again? Remembering I'm a trained detective, and I know when you're lying. Your lips move."

He shot her a glare. "I'm fine."

"Castle ..."

He couldn't help himself. "You were flirting with Congreve."

"Was I?"

"You were looking at him like you were working out how much you could offer per pound."

Kate smirked this time. "What's the matter, Castle?" she asked as the elevator doors opened. "Afraid you might be past your sell by date?"

His eyebrow twitched as he followed her inside. "At least I'm still prime meat," he said, stabbing the button for the ground floor, her laughter echoing along the corridor as the doors closed.


	17. Chapter 17

"Beckett." Montgomery leaned out of his doorway as Kate and Rick exited the elevator. "My office."

"Have we done something wrong?" Rick murmured.

"Not lately." She walked forward, her stride confident as always on her four inch heels.

"Close the door," the captain said as soon as the two partners had got inside.

Rick did as he was asked, turning back immediately. "What's up?"

"Whose cage have you been rattling?" Montgomery asked, standing behind his desk.

"Sir?" Kate was surprised.

"I've had a number of important people on the phone, all requesting that you wrap this case up as quickly as possible." He smiled suddenly. "Whatever you're doing, it's working."

Rick couldn't help the smirk that creased his lips, and even Kate looked happy. Roy Montgomery was one captain who always had his detectives' backs, because no matter what, the bad guys were always wrong.

"I'm not sure what we are doing," Kate admitted, "but thanks to James Congreve we're a little further ahead." She handed him the computer printout. "Gianni Viducci. When we were talking about the original theft being an inside job, we didn't know how right we were."

"Viducci." Montgomery stared at the facial reconstruction then looked up. "Do you think he arranged the whole thing?"

Rick shook his head. He'd taken some of the ride back to do a little research via his all singing, all dancing cellphone while Kate had deliberately not asked about his conversation with Congreve. "Gianni wasn't known as being the sharpest pencil in the box. A job like this demanded intelligence, capability ... Gianni just wasn't the type. He was much more into the brawn side of the picture."

"So we're still looking for the brains."

"If we're thinking that the original thieves are the ones who did the latest murders," Kate put in. "There's no proof at the moment."

"Still, from the rumblings overhead I'd say it was at least a fair bet." Montgomery tapped his pen on his desk blotter. "Check out the Viduccis. They might not be big names in organised crime anymore, but maybe they've still got influence."

"Enough to be rattling those cages?" Rick asked.

"Somehow it wouldn't surprise me."

They left the captain's office, seeing Ryan standing by the murder board.

"Anything from Billy's locker?" Kate asked, her heels clicking on the floor as she crossed the bull pen to join him.

"Nada." He'd put the mugshot of William Bonney onto the board under the heading of 'Person of Interest'. "Not unless you count three porn magazines and a packet of condoms." He nodded towards the picture. "He doesn't look old enough to vote, let alone be interested in that kind of thing."

"He's older than he looks," Kate said quickly before Rick could ask if Ryan had brought the magazines back with him. "Nothing else?"

"Only a pair of socks that looked like they'd been there for weeks." He grimaced slightly.

"No change of clothes?" Rick asked. "White shirt, black pants?"

"No." Ryan gazed at him. "Why?"

"He wasn't intending coming back."

Kate turned. "You think he's run out?"

"Billy's a waiter at _Elysium_, and because of Duncan's past some of the clientele are likely to be ... shall we say, verging on the wrong side of the law." Rick was starting to weave the picture, pulling the disparate strands together. "Maybe Sarah Richardson goes in there one evening for a loaf of bread, and while she's there they get chatting. She's fed up with Oliver never being around, and Billy invites her to the movies, or even just to take a walk by the river." He licked his lips. "They start something, maybe physical, maybe not. For once she's the older woman, and it's fun. So when Oliver tells her about what he and Clyde might have found in the Hudson, she passes it on to Billy, maybe as pillow talk. They laugh about it, thinking it's just another wild goose chase."

Kate leaned back on the desk, almost able to see it in her mind's eye.

Rick went on. "Only Oliver and Clyde _do_ find something – they find treasure. And Sarah can't wait to tell Billy. Only Billy's been thinking about it. Maybe this is his big chance. _Their_ big chance. They don't need much, just enough money to start afresh, to make a life together. So he asks around at the restaurant, finds someone who's willing to cut him in for information. And that information is soon forthcoming. Oliver says a bit too much to Sarah, and she passes it on to Billy, and suddenly they're playing ring-a-rosy with really bad guys who don't mind killing. Only Oliver dies from the Bends, and Clyde gets his throat cut before they can reveal where the bulk of that treasure is."

"So you think Sarah was kidnapped and tortured to make her tell them where it was?" Kate asked slowly.

"It fits."

"I'm afraid to say it does. And that call to Billy about us questioning her was enough to scare him, then when she was killed –"

"He grabbed his gear and ran."

"Afraid he was going to be next." Kate stared at the photo of 'Billy the Kid'. "Ryan, put out a BOLO on William Bonney. If Castle's right we might have to arrest him for his own good."

Ryan, who had been enjoying the story, and the backwards and forwards that followed it, smirked. "Will do." He headed back to his desk, then added over his shoulder, "Oh, and that stuff arrived."

"Great. Did you get it to the techs?"

"Esposito's taking it there now. They said they'd get onto it as soon as they could. And his file's on your desk."

"Thanks." She paused. "And when he gets back see what you can find on the Viducci family, where they are now, what they're doing. Reach out to Organised Crime if you need to."

"On it." He lifted the phone and started to dial.

Rick stood in Kate's path. "Stuff? File?" His eyes narrowed. "What aren't you telling me?"

She moved smoothly around him to sit at her desk. "Maggie arranged for her publishers to send the proof of plagiarism over."

"Sh!" Rick jerked his head around to make sure nobody was listening. "Do you want everyone to hear? And she didn't plagiarise."

"I know that. Which is why forensics are going to take a look at this so-called proof to find out how he did it."

He sat down in his usual chair, leaning forward. "And the file?"

"Howard Harrison." She picked up the buff folder and opened it, scanning quickly. "Interesting."

"Interesting ... how? Specifically."

She glanced into his face, seeing the intensity of a single-minded writer mixed with a huge dose of curiosity, as well as deep and honest concern for his friend. She might joke about his attention span being little more than that of a goldfish, let alone his acting like a twelve year old on a sugar rush, but she couldn't fault his loyalty. "Harrison's tried this before."

"Really?" He rested his elbow on the corner of the desk, his thumb tracing his bottom lip. "How?"

"He's registered three attempts to claim against various different publishers for loss of earnings due to plagiarism." She lifted a page. "Each one's been thrown out before it got anywhere." She looked up. "Loss of earnings?"

Rick shrugged. "It's not specifically aimed at any one author, but I'd take a guess that he claimed he'd sent manuscripts to them, they turned them down, then something similar turned up in one or more books published by that house."

She smiled. "It's like you were reading from the page." The smile faded. "But he's not actually gone that route with Maggie."

"No." Rick thought for a moment. "He realised going through the courts wouldn't work. That's why he's targeting Maggie. She's a bestselling writer, well-known ... like I told you, any hint of even a suggestion she'd stolen from him would be catastrophic."

"So he's hoping the publishers will pay up just to keep him quiet." Kate nodded slowly. "It's not a bad plan."

"I'd say it was diabolical, but you'd probably just accuse me of hyperbole."

"Probably." She continued flicking through the file. "There's nothing much else. He's had a couple of tickets for running red lights, but that's about it."

"You mean he's no criminal mastermind."

"Not really."

"You know, maybe I should go and talk to him."

She held her finger in front of his face. "No."

"What? Why not? I can be my normal, charming self, and talk him out of it."

"And I said no. You get involved and all that's going to happen is he'll see another potential source of income." She shook her head. "You leave it to forensics for the moment, see what they can do."

"But it's Maggie."

"And I'm sure she's over the moon that you'd like to fight giants for her, but just be careful they don't turn into windmills."

He sat back, an amused expression making his eyes wider. "A Don Quixote reference? Kate, I'm proud of you."

"Just remember I'm not Dulcinea."

"I was thinking more along the lines of Sancho Panza ..." Then he yelped as she hit him.

* * *

"So?" Alexis was waiting for him as he walked into the apartment.

"So ... what?"

"Maggie. How is she?"

He'd called both his daughter and mother on the way back from to the precinct to let them know Maggie was safe, if not particularly well, and had to persuade each of them not to hurry around to Congreve's to look after her. Only as usual Alexis wanted to hear it face to face.

"I called on the way home," he promised. "And she's okay. Feeling very sorry for herself, but she'll be fine."

"Good." Alexis's face relaxed a little. "Did you speak to her?"

"For about thirty seconds," Rick admitted, smiling as he pulled his daughter into his arms. "That was about as much as James would let me."

"James?" Martha chuckled from where she was preparing supper. "It sounds like perhaps you might be getting along now."

"Not getting along," Rick said, walking with Alexis towards the counter. "But... I suppose he's okay."

"I liked him," Alexis said. "I think he could be good for Maggie."

"And how would you know that?" he asked, looking down into her clear eyes.

"She needs someone, Dad. And it's time she gave up waiting for you."

She was being honest, he knew that. And, if he were honest in turn, he knew she was right. "She could have said yes," he pointed out though.

"And you could have asked again," Martha put in. "But you didn't. Kiddo, you can't have your cake and eat it."

"I don't know. I've done pretty good at that so far." He tried to deflect the conversation. "And weren't you supposed to be with Chet tonight?"

Martha waved the large spoon in her hand. "He's at some Lodge function or other. No women allowed."

"Is that the one pants leg rolled up, funny handshake thing?"

"Dad," Alexis scolded lightly. "You know that's not what they do."

He grinned. "I know." He'd done enough research for _Storm Warning_. "But I can dream."

"And you can't change the subject," Martha added. "Maggie's far too good a woman to be left hanging."

"I know," he admitted. "It's just ..."

"She's Maggie," Alexis finished.

"Yes."

"That won't change," Martha said, tipping way too much salt as usual into the pasta sauce she was concocting.

Rick could almost hear his arteries clanging shut. "Mother ..."

"What?"

"Grab your coat. I'm taking us out to dinner."

"But I've cooked ..."

"We can freeze it," he said firmly, while the traitorous thought in his mind added _And accidentally toss it into the garbage._ "I feel like ... noise. Company."

She glared at him, but turned off the heat and moved the pan to one side. "Where?" she asked finally. "_Elysium_?"

Something in him baulked at going back there, so he shook his head. "_Antonelli's_. I hear he's got a new pastry chef. All the way from Paris."

"Pastry?" Martha was already removing her apron, walking around the counter. "He wouldn't know how to do those little almondy things with the sugar crust, would he?"

"I wouldn't be at all surprised."

"I'll be right back." She hurried upstairs.

"You are very good," Alexis murmured.

"Years of practice," he admitted, then nodded to the small suitcase at the bottom of the stairs. "Are you moving out?"

She smiled at him, squeezing his waist. "It's some stuff I put together for Maggie. You know, nightclothes, hairbrush, toiletries, that sort of thing."

"I'll take them on the way in to the precinct in the morning. And ... nightclothes?" He managed to look surprised. "I didn't think she owned any. She never did when we were ... sharing the apartment." He coughed.

"I know you and Maggie were more than friends," Alexis said.

"You're sixteen. You shouldn't."

"We've had sex education lessons at school for a long time. I probably know more than you think."

"That isn't ..." He closed his eyes briefly, then looked down into her face again. "Just so long as it's just knowing, and not practicing."

She blushed, the delicate pinkness clashing with her hair. "Dad ..."

He grinned.

* * *

A minute before nine the next morning and James Congreve was at least better groomed this time, wearing a white, open-necked shirt tucked into jeans, with cowboy boots on his feet. He'd also shaved. Standing in the doorway, like a large, human barrier, he half-smiled. "Castle. Still checking up on me?"

"No." Rick held up the small suitcase. "Some of Maggie's things."

"Oh." There was a pause, then he stepped backwards and added, "You'd better come in."

"Thanks." He walked into the cool apartment again, noting the slim silver laptop open on the table, books and notes scattered across the rest of the wooden surface.

"Maggie's still asleep," James said. "I was going to wake her in about half an hour to make her eat, but if you want to see her, I can –"

"No." Rick shook his head quickly. "Sleep's the best thing for her. Don't disturb her on my account."

"Okay." James held out a hand. "Shall I ..."

"Oh. Right." Rick gave him the case. "It's not much. Alexis put it together."

"I'm sure Maggie will be glad to have some of her own things around her. She's ... a bit grumpy at the moment." The words were accompanied by an oddly surprised look on the big man's face.

"You mean she's a crap patient?" Rick almost laughed. "I know."

"You do?"

"She broke her ankle a few years ago, and I went to LA to look after her." He shook his head ruefully. "If we hadn't been best friends, I'd probably have walked out."

"She's not quite as bad as that."

"Wait 'til she's feeling a bit better. Then you'll know."

James stared, then a grin broke out, and he laughed. "No wonder she speaks so highly of you, Castle."

"Rick. Look, if we're going to be anything close to friends, you'd better call me Rick."

"Friends?" James' eyebrow raised. "Is that what we're going to be?"

"I don't know," Rick admitted. "But I sort of get the idea Maggie's going to want that."

James gaze didn't waver, but he said, "I love her. You know that, don't you?"

"So do I. But not ... like that." More like a sister, he was coming to believe. The sister he never had. The sister he slept with back in the dim and distant past but didn't know was his sister, and if his imagination was going to toss up images like that he was going to have to go and scrub his mind out with bleach, and Kate would gladly help, he was sure, laughing every step of the way, at least before she arrested him for incest ...

The bigger man seemed to come to a decision, and held out his hand. "Hi," he said, his lips twitching a little at the apparent nonsense. "My name's James."

"Rick. Nice to meet you." They shook, just as someone knocked on the door.

James let go and went to see who it was, leaving Rick to surreptitiously try and get blood back into his fingers and wonder if the curator had deliberately tried to break his hand or if he just didn't know his own strength.

"Mr Congreve." A man in his mid-forties was at the door, a basket in his arms. "Compliments of Mr Monaghan."

James took the basket. "Thank you, Mr Garvey."

"Sir." Garvey, whom Rick remembered as being mentioned as Duncan's driver, nodded at the pair of them with his large, bald head, and walked quietly back towards the elevator.

"Rick, would you mind closing the door?" James asked, carrying the basket into the kitchen.

The author complied, then followed him. "What did he bring?"

James opened the top. "Fresh bread, some preserves, a flask of something, half a dozen plastic boxes of food ..." He laughed. "There's even reheating instructions."

"Sounds like you're set for the day."

"Oh, I think this is only the second instalment. You should have seen the amount that arrived yesterday afternoon – we could have had a dinner party."

"Duncan always did tend to go overboard." He glanced over his shoulder. "Mind if I just ..."

James smiled. "Go ahead. But if you wake her up, you can take the abuse."

"Wouldn't be the first time." Rick ambled back through the living room, glancing at the papers on the table as he went. It looked like James had been doing research of his own, and he recognised a number of the pages as some he'd printed himself.

At the bedroom he paused, then took a deep breath, opening the door just enough to peer inside. The curtains were half-drawn, but there was enough light to see Maggie sprawled on the bed, the covers pushed back. Stepping inside quietly he stepped as silently as possible to her side. The t-shirt she was wearing had ridden up somewhat, exposing a thin line of bare midriff, and he smiled as he lifted the sheet to cover her again. Her eyes screwed up, and he held his breath in case she woke, but she settled back, snoring due to her nose being blocked.

Backing up towards the door he sighed. He knew he'd missed the boat with Maggie – that had sailed a long time ago, and he'd travelled far too many miles to go back now. But maybe he could make sure she was happy. And if James was the man who could do that, then perhaps he should cut the other man some slack.

He closed the door carefully, smiling as he turned back into the living room. James was watching him, a strange look on his face.

"Is she still asleep?"

"Yes. I'd leave her a while longer."

"Probably a good idea." James thrust his hands into his jeans pockets. "Do you want a coffee or anything?"

"No. Thanks. I've got to get to work."

"Work. Oh, you mean with Detective Beckett."

"That's right."

Again that funny look crossed James' face. "Looking into the Viduccis."

"Yes." Rick waited a moment, then asked, "What is it?"

"You do know Duncan Monaghan was involved with them? With the Viduccis?" James asked tentatively in turn.

Ah, that was it. "Yes. I know."

James visibly relaxed. "I wasn't sure."

"We're the cops, James. Of course we know."

"You're a writer."

"I have contacts." A thought occurred to him. "How do _you_ know?"

It was something that such a large man could look quite so self-conscious. "I ... uh ..." He looked down at his cowboy boots, but when his eyes lifted there was amusement in them. "I didn't always work in a museum, Rick. I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth." He smiled. "If I had been someone would have stolen it."

"You were in a gang?" Somehow Rick's overactive mind could imagine it all too well.

"I don't think I want to confirm or deny that. Besides, I had to have something to do yesterday while Maggie slept." James jerked his chin towards his laptop. "It's amazing what you can find on the internet, even when it's only confirming what I already knew." He shook his head. "You and Kate Beckett ... you really haven't told me anything about this case, have you?"

"Like I said before, it's ongoing."

"No. I understand."

Rick felt a flash of guilt. This man had been extremely helpful, giving up his own time to aid the police, let alone looking after Maggie ... "Look, James," he began. "Gianni Viducci wasn't the only death associated with this treasure. It's not safe for you to be involved any more than you already are."

"Not safe?"

His cellphone rang, and as he reached into his jacket for it he said firmly, "Trust me." He glanced down – _Beckett_. Thumbing the receive icon, he said, "Hey. I'm on my way to the precinct."

"_Don't bother,"_ she said shortly. _"Meet me in Central Park, East 74__th__."_

He half turned away from James, lowering his voice a little. "Kate, as much as I'd like to take a walk with you, don't we have some bad guy catching to do?"

"_We're got another body."_

Another? Rick had to hold back the sigh of frustration. "Who?" he asked, although from Kate's voice he had a good – or maybe a bad – idea.

"_We were too late,"_ Kate said, her bitterness coming all too easily over the phone. _"Billy's dead."_


	18. Chapter 18

The Alice in Wonderland statue had been delighting children and adults alike for almost half a century where it stood near Conservatory Water in Central Park, as Rick explained.

"It was commissioned in 1959, I think," he said conversationally. "José de Creeft used his own daughter's face for Alice, while the rest are based on the original Tenniel drawings. I'm rather partial to the Cheshire Cat myself."

"I used to play on it when my Dad brought me to the park," Kate added.

"That doesn't surprise me. Alexis loved it."

"_Twas brillig,_" Kate read from the inscription around the base. "_And the slithy tove did gyre and gimbal in the wabe._"

"_All mimsy were the borogroves_," Rick went on from memory. "_And the mome raths outgrabe._" He sighed. "Do you think he's a mome rath?" he asked, nodding towards the figure draped over the largest mushroom at Alice's feet.

"More like a slithy tove from the blood," Lanie said. "Only I don't think the Jabberwocky did it." She touched the corpse's neck with a delicate, blue latex covered finger. "His throat's cut, but at least he put up a fight. He's got defensive wounds on his arms and hands, and what looks like bruising on his knuckles, although they look older than time of death. But I'll be able to tell you more when I get him back to the lab and cleaned up."

"A knife again," Rick mused. "Like Clyde Osaki."

"Killers tend to have a favourite weapon and stick to it," Kate said, going down onto her heels and looking into William Bonney's slack, grey face. "No facial lacerations." She glanced at Lanie. "He wasn't tortured?"

"Over and above the knife wounds, no," the ME confirmed. "At least, not beaten. But since I haven't turned him over yet ..." She shrugged. "Men have other ways of feeling pain."

Rick fought the desire to cross his hands over his own crotch, and instead coughed before saying, "So Billy wasn't asked any questions."

"Or if he was he told them straight out," Kate suggested.

"Got his bag here," Ryan said, striding up with a holdall held well away from him, since it was dripping. "Dumped in the pond," he added. "Wallet's inside with his driver's licence, but there's no cash or credit cards, just some clothes."

"A mugging gone bad?" Rick surmised.

"I don't believe in those kind of coincidences," Kate said, straightening up.

"I use them all the time in my books."

"That's fiction, Castle. Not real life."

"So somebody wanted us to _think _it was a mugging gone bad."

"More than likely."

"Okay," Lanie said, having finished making her notes. "Let's get him off here and turn him over." She beckoned her techs.

Billy's clothes had stuck to the bronze, suggesting Lanie's initial ToD of sometime between 10 and midnight as being accurate since the blood had had time to congeal and dry. As they manhandled him down onto the black body bag Lanie quickly made a further examination.

"Anything?" Kate asked.

"No." Lanie nodded and William Bonney's last physical remains were zipped up. "The only damage is what we've already seen."

Kate was staring at the black plastic, her lips pursed slightly.

"Penny for them?" Rick asked.

"I just feel like I'm missing something." She shook her head. "It'll come to me."

"It usually does."

She looked up at him, but he was radiating honesty. Sometimes she forgot how much he believed in her, trusted her judgement and abilities, and she couldn't stop the corner of her mouth from twitching. "Come on," she said. "There's nothing more we can do here."

"Billy's place? We don't need a warrant now he's dead, do we?"

"I doubt we'll find anything useful, but we'll get CSU over there. _If_ they've got enough manpower left," she added drily. She started back towards the car. "Besides, I have a phone call to make."

"A call?"

"Billy's mother."

Instantly the cold wind seemed that much chillier, and Rick was taken back to a conversation not that long ago when Kate had said how sometimes that was the hardest part, that it was the call that changed everything.

"You want I should stay with you?" At her look he went on, "Keep you supplied with coffee, I mean."

Her clear eyes, either brown or green or hazel depending on the lighting and the time of day, gazed at him. "That would be good."

"Okay." He nodded, then changed the subject. "Aren't you afraid of catching the 'flu?" he asked, digging his hands deeper into his pockets.

"I don't catch things," Kate said, knowing what he was doing and being absurdly grateful for it. "I'm a cop. We can't go around worrying about getting sick. Otherwise we wouldn't be able to do our job properly."

"I'd look after you. Tuck you up in bed. Read you stories."

"Help me to the bathroom ..."

His eyes glazed over for a moment. "Mmn. Bathroom."

She laughed. "You mean pretty much like James is doing for Maggie right now."

He snapped back to the present. "Please, don't remind me."

"Are you two getting on better now?"

"We're ... talking."

"You make it sound like you had a lover's tiff."

"Please. He's not my type."

"Who is?"

"Nobody!" he insisted.

"Come on, Castle," she teased. "There must have been someone. Once upon a time. They say everyone has one, someone of the same sex who ... tickled their fancy."

"I've never had my fancy tickled, thank you very much."

"Not even once? Not even in the name of research?"

"No." He angled his head to look at her. "I'll have you know I've been surrounded by women all my life. I didn't need to ... whatever."

"Whatever. Hmmn." She looked thoughtful. "It got as far as ... whatever."

"There wasn't an 'it' to get as far as 'whatever'."

"I believe you, Castle. The rest of the precinct won't."

He knew she didn't mean it, that it was their normal banter. And the truth was he'd never been attracted to the male sex, not in that way. He had far too many friends – of _both _genders – to need it.

"If you even mention any of this," he went on, keeping in the spirit of the game, "I'll sue for defamation of character."

They reached the car. "What character? Oh, yours?" She grinned. "I thought that had been defamed enough."

"I can still hold a few tatters of my reputation together, I'll have you know."

"That many. Anyway, you can't sue. You signed your life away before you started following me around. I own you."

He smirked. "And I don't mind a bit."

"Yo, Beckett, wait up." It was Esposito, jogging to catch them.

"What is it?" Kate asked, waiting for him.

"Just got a call – uniforms finally found where Sarah Richardson was tortured."

"It's taken long enough."

The detective shrugged. "The 'flu," he said, as if it explained everything.

"Where?"

"An abandoned office building a couple of streets over from where she was killed."

"Are CSU there?" she wanted to know.

"Taking stock as we speak. They said we might be in luck – the place has been empty for a while, there's blood and signs of a struggle, so we might get something usable in the way of prints."

"Stay on them. I doubt there's anything they can do with the statue – there's going to be thousands, so that place could be our only hope."

"Will do."

"And get someone over to William Bonney's. We've got just cause now."

"On it." He headed back towards the knot of people still gathered around the statue.

Kate walked around to the driver's side, but Rick hadn't moved. "Come on," she urged him. "I don't know about you but I'm cold."

"You know, I've been thinking."

"Don't strain yourself."

Rick ignored the jibe. "Why didn't he run?" he asked, leaning on the car. "I mean, he must have cleaned out his locker at _Elysium_ as soon as he heard Sarah was dead. Why didn't he rabbit then?"

She internalised the sigh, knowing she wasn't going to get any further until she'd responded. Likewise leaning on the top of the car, she said, "Maybe he tried to. We don't know where he was. Perhaps he got picked up as soon as he left _Elysium._"

"And they kept him somewhere instead of asking questions?" He didn't look convinced.

"I don't know, Castle. And we're not going to get any answers standing here." She opened the door and climbed in.

He followed, a little slower. "Do you think he might have been trying blackmail?" he asked, his brow furrowed in thought.

Pausing as she put the key into the ignition, Kate blinked then turned to look at him. "Threatening to go to the cops about what he knew if they didn't pay him? That would be really stupid."

"Nobody said he was particularly bright."

"It's possible." She started the car, and warm air slowly filtered through the grills. "Not likely, but possible."

"Why not likely?"

"Because he knew three people were already dead because of it." Taking off the handbrake she moved the car smoothly away, driving slowly through odd groups of people still heading towards the crime scene to see what all the fuss was about.

"Like I said, maybe he thought he could get away with it."

"And ended up with his throat cut. Good plan."

Rick hadn't finished, though. He'd been thinking on the cab ride to the park. "And about the vault. If James and Duncan were right, and everyone knew about the stash, why didn't the Feds or the cops raid the place?"

"On whose say so? Rumour, painted full of tongues."

He beamed at her. "God, I love it when you quote Shakespeare."

"And you didn't answer my question. We can't go breaking down doors just because we think there might be something stolen behind them. We need something called evidence."

"I get that. But if James had heard the rumours, years after the event, then someone else must have known. Someone high enough up to put the screws on the owner of the Ledger to bury the story on page 12 and not chase the facts. Maybe like someone in the Mayor's office."

"You think this unnamed someone was in the pay of the Mob."

"It would answer a lot of questions, right? Like how come there was only one man on watch that night, and why didn't he hear something? Again, if we believe James, it would probably have taken three, maybe four trucks to cart the cache away. He had to have seen something more than he admitted. Unless he had an envelope stuffed through his door to keep his mouth shut."

"You're talking conspiracy."

"Why not? There have been times New York hasn't exactly had the squeakiest of clean reputations." He began to get excited. "Maybe it was another family. Duncan said the theft caused the war between the Viduccis and the Malones to escalate until they'd virtually wiped each other out. What better way to get rid of your enemies than by making them kill themselves?"

"I can buy that."

"According to James most of the artwork was probably stolen to order ... this time it was just stolen to order again, making it a more sophisticated version of the gang war." He sat back in his seat, feeling satisfied. "And they paid off anyone who might know anything."

Kate shook her head. "Somehow I think we're more likely to figure out who killed Kennedy than work out who didn't tell someone something they should have fifty years ago."

"CIA shooter on the grassy knoll."

She rolled her eyes. "How did I know you were going to say that?"

"It's obvious."

"So you go against an investigation that cost thousands of dollars, and proved, without a shadow of a doubt that Lee Harvey Oswald was the lone gunman."

"Hey, I'm a writer. We're paid to think outside the box."

"Do you have a theory for everything?" she asked, turning right into traffic.

"Pretty much."

"Loch Ness monster."

"A family of plesiosaurs caught in the lake during one of the ice ages."

"Stonehenge."

"Psychic landing pad for alien spaceships."

"Precognition."

"You know, I just knew you were going to ask me that." He ducked back to avoid his ear being tweaked, but grinned widely.

* * *

"Drink it. All of it." James was being firm, but his lips were curved. Castle had been right, it seemed. Maggie was a poor patient.

"I don't want to." She was acting like a five year old.

"Then you don't get better." He sat back in the chair. "Is that what you want? To stay here for the rest of your life?"

Maggie looked around the room, at the expensive looking furnishings, the paintings on the wall ... "How did you afford all this?" she demanded.

"I'm good at my job." He shook his head. "Maggie, please stop procrastinating."

"Why?" She crossed her arms. "I like it."

"Drink it down. The doctor said it will help your chest."

She looked down. "There's nothing wrong with my chest." Then she coughed, doubling over at the violence of it.

"Right." James moved to the bed, holding her until it eased.

She collapsed slightly into his lap. "Damn it, James, I thought I was supposed to be feeling better."

He ran his fingers through her damp hair. "You will. Soon. But not if you don't take your medication."

Lifting her head she glared at him. "All right," she ground out.

He smiled and picked up the small plastic cup from the bedside table. "Open."

She opened her mouth, then wider when he gave her a look. Carefully, so as to avoid spilling any either down Maggie or onto the bedclothes, he tipped the yellow liquid between her lips.

Her eyes screwed up as she swallowed hastily, then her tongue stuck out.

"That is so gross."

"It's good for you," he said, settling her back against the pillows.

"Why can't they make it taste nicer?" she moaned, making faces as she tried to clear the taste. "Candy floss, perhaps. Or brandy." She paused. "Brandy would be a good idea. Just a little."

"No," James said, tidying the bed around her. "Not with the tablets. The doctor was very clear on that."

"Meanie."

"Him or me?"

"Both of you." She flung an arm over her eyes. "I feel like shit."

He tucked the sheet up around her. "It will pass."

"Right. That's what I thought about how I feel about Rick."

There was silence in the room, and Maggie suddenly realised what she'd said. Peeking under her arm she could see James just sitting, his eyes closed.

"Sorry," she murmured, reaching out and taking his hand. "It's the drugs. I don't know what I'm saying."

"Yes, you do," James said. "And it's all right."

"No, it's not."

"Well, it doesn't matter. You need to get some rest."

"I've been resting."

"Then get some more. I'll wake you in a while." He went to get up, but her grip on his hand was surprisingly strong.

"Don't. Please. Stay here with me."

"Maggie, I –"

"He doesn't love me," she said quickly before she could stop herself. "Not like that. And I understand. And however much I wish he did, I can't make it happen."

"Maggie, you don't have to explain."

"I want to." She couldn't stand the hurt look on his face, and it made her want to kiss it better. "I'm moving on, James."

He stared down at her. "What, you mean out of New York?"

She had to smile. "No. Well, yes, I suppose so since I technically live in Los Angeles. Although I had been thinking I needed to get a place here again since my publishers are here, and if there's going to be more trouble over the book then I should have a base where I can –"

"Maggie." He put his finger on her lips to stop her. "You're babbling."

"I know." She felt tears prickle at the corner of her eyes. "But I meant I'm moving on from Rick."

He swallowed. "You are?"

"He's always going to be a big thing in my life, and I wouldn't want it any other way. But we're never going to end up together." Her lips tightened as she realised the truth in what she was saying. "Maybe if I'd ... at the beginning ... but the opportunity passed by. And I've wasted enough time waiting for something that is never going to happen."

James could feel his heart missing every other beat. "And that means ..."

"I don't know," she admitted. "But ..." For a long moment she didn't go on, then she sighed heavily. "Hold me?" she asked.

"On the rebound?" he teased gently.

"Hey, I think I've been bounced around long enough, don't you?" she asked testily, then coughed again.

Immediately he moved around so he could lie on the edge of the bed, his back against the headboard, pulling her into his chest and feeling her settle against him as the fit subsided as if she'd been there forever. He couldn't help himself as he dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

She snuggled closer, enjoying the warmth of another body against her.

"Comfy?" James asked.

"Yes." She smiled. "So ... why don't you tell me what you and Rick were talking about earlier?"


	19. Chapter 19

"I'm sorry." Maggie wiped at the orange juice down her t-shirt with a handful of tissues.

"Hey, I'm not the one who's all wet," James said from the bathroom. He came out with a towel. "No, look, you're just going to make it worse. Take it off."

She stopped wiping and looked at him. "What?"

"The t-shirt. It'll have to be washed anyway, you're getting all sticky ... just take it off."

"Are you trying to get me naked, Mr Congreve?"

He flashed a smile that was part warm and part wicked. "Miss Maguire, I've already seen you half naked when I put you to bed."

A blush raced up her skin. "Oh. Right."

"Maggie, don't worry. I won't look." He put the towel onto the bed, patted it, then crossed to the large clothes press against the wall, taking his time looking through the top drawer. "Tell me when you're ready."

She glared at his back, waiting for him to turn, but he didn't. Slowly, ready to cross her arms over her breasts if needed, she lifted the t-shirt over her head. It was her fault, of course. They'd been talking, he'd got her some juice and she'd sneezed, emptying half the glass down her. As tempted as she was to use the towel to mop herself, she had to admit James was right. "At least I didn't get it on your books," she said, wrapping the t-shirt over itself to keep the worst of the mess inside, glancing at the volumes from his shelves lying on the counterpane that he'd got out to illustrate what he'd told her about Gianni Viducci.

"No. Not that I would have minded. It wasn't your fault."

"I know, but I ..." She shivered. "James, I'm cold."

"Shit." He pulled another t-shirt from the drawer, and backed towards her. "Maggie, I have to turn around, else I'm going to fall over."

She grabbed the towel to put in front of her chest, cursing herself for being a prude. "Okay."

Turning on his heel he took the last couple of paces back to the bed and handed her the clean top, taking the soiled one. "It's okay," he said, going back into the bathroom to toss it into the laundry hamper. "As much as I'd like to, I'm not going to take advantage of you."

She laughed, then coughed, covering her mouth with the towel until she could recover. "I don't think I could enjoy it right now if you did," she managed to gasp out. Then her mood switchbacked as she dried herself off. "I'm sorry, James."

"What for?"

"You're being so nice to me, and I'm being ..." She sniffed hard.

"Being what?"

She looked up, seeing him standing in the bathroom doorway, filling it. "Me."

"Which is fine by me, so no need to apologise," James said. "And you're ..." He motioned towards his own chest.

Glancing down, Maggie's face reddened even more. "Oh." She crossed one arm over her breasts and picked up the clean t-shirt, trying to put it on one-handed.

James, pushing the inclination to help out of his mind, ducked back into the bathroom to give her some space. He stood looking into the mirror, idly noting with one part of his mind that he needed to get his hair trimmed. He ran both hands through it, then leaned on the sink. "You trust Duncan Monaghan," he said, the words slipping out of his mouth before his brain had a chance to intervene.

Maggie had told him everything she could remember about the investigation, including the information Duncan had imparted to Rick, swearing James to secrecy when she realised she was probably breaking a confidence.

"I like him," she admitted, lying back on the pillow, worn out by her efforts at redressing.

He stepped back into the bedroom and looked down at her, leaning on the door jamb. "You know he was a part of all this."

"All this?"

"The time ... the families ..."

"You mean the Malones?" She peered up at him. "James, I don't understand."

Sitting down on the bed next to her, he took her hand. "Rick Castle told me not to get involved. That it was potentially dangerous."

"He did?"

"He was warning me for the sake of my health." He smiled. "I think I'm breaking him down."

"He's a good guy."

"So you keep telling me."

"I want you to get along."

James chuckled. "I'm trying, Maggie."

"Good." She patted his hand just as someone knocked at the door. "Are you expecting anyone?"

"No." He got slowly to his feet. "And George didn't ring from the front desk."

"Better go and see who it is, then." Maggie sneezed again, then pulled the clean t-shirt away from her skin. "And bring some ice back, will you? I'm so hot."

"Okay." He pulled the covers up, batting her hands away when she tried to push it back. "Stop it. You have to keep warm."

"Hot."

"Don't care."

The someone at the door knocked again, louder this time, with something other than a hand.

"Go on," Maggie grumbled, clutching the sheet. "Before they break it down."

* * *

Billy Bonney's picture had been moved from the Person of Interest side of the murder board to the Victim area, with the bare bones of his life and death inked underneath.

"It doesn't look like much, does it?" Rick said, hitching one buttock onto the desk.

"What?" Kate asked, standing next to him and not really paying attention.

"Birth, infancy, childhood, school, college, work ... death."

Kate sighed and turned to gaze at him. "Are you feeling particularly morbid today?"

"Not particularly."

"Then why the pondering on mortality?"

Rick shrugged. "I just do, sometimes. Especially when I think how Billy there isn't that much older than Alexis."

She held up the file she'd been reading. "And by the time he was her age he'd already been in and out of juvie for boosting a car, and enjoying smoking illegal substances."

Rick had to smile. "I'm not suggesting he's actually anything _like_ my daughter."

"Good. Because he wasn't."

"It's just ..." He thought for a moment. "It makes you wonder what he'd have been able to achieve if he hadn't been murdered so young."

"So it's okay for old people to be killed?"

He stared at her, his jaw dropped in comic surprise. "You know I didn't say that. Or think it."

Her lips curved. "I know. And the truth is, if Billy was really lucky, he might have carried on waiting tables and not been doing a ten stretch in Attica by the time he hit thirty."

"You don't think he could have turned his life around?"

"Some criminals do," she allowed. "But you've been working with me long enough to know it's more the exception than the rule."

"You mean they have to want to."

"There are lots of reasons for re-offending ... accidental, economical, societal ... or just thinking it's easier than making an honest living."

He interlaced his fingers. "You think everyone's capable of breaking the law?"

"Of course they are. To some degree or another. But most of us have a strong sense of moralilty."

"Are you giving me the eye?"

"I don't know. Do you feel guilty about anything?"

Rick laughed. "My whole life, Kate. My whole life. Well, at least the good bits of it."

"You don't have to sound so proud about it."

"Hey, if I don't, nobody else is going to be."

* * *

In the side office, going yet again through the financials of Oliver Stanford and Clyde Osaki, with Sarah Richardson's for dessert, Ryan nudged Esposito. "Mom and Pop are getting friendly."

Esposito glanced up. "That's about as far as it's going," he said, shaking his head.

"You think they're ever going to get their act together?" Ryan asked.

"At this rate we'll be on Medicare by the time they do."

"We could always try locking them in the box and seeing what happens."

"My money's on Beckett coming out alone."

Ryan chuckled, his gaze going back to papers in front of him. "I don't think Castle would mind going out that way."

"You're probably right."

"Anyway, if it goes on much longer it'll only be Montgomery left in the pool to ... win ..." His voice petered out.

"Ryan?"

"What's Stanford's address?"

"Somewhere in the Village." Esposito sat forward. "Why?"

""No, exactly."

"Ryan ... what have you found, bro?"

"Where's that list ..."

* * *

Back in the bullpen Rick had sat down in his normal chair, one elbow resting on the desk, having found perching was making his ass go to sleep. He watched Kate staring pensively at the murder board, the fingers of her right hand tapping her chin, the navy blouse she was wearing gaping just a little to show the edge of a black lace bra. La Perla, he bet. Somehow he could see her spending just a little bit more on fancy yet comfortable underwear. All the women he'd dated had agreed on that point, with some of them (including Gina, at least the last time he'd been allowed anywhere near it, and mostly paid for by him, thank you very much) owning a small fortune's worth. Or maybe it was a teddy, cupping and supporting, caressing down her flesh until it reached –

"What?" she asked, not looking at him.

"What?"

"You're staring."

"No. No. Not staring. Just ... thinking." He shifted uncomfortably on the chair.

"About what?"

He fished frantically through his mind for something about as non-sexual as he could find. "Did you know that if you drop a bullet from the same height at the same time as you fire a gun, both bullets hit the ground at the same time?"

"What?" Kate turned on her heel to glare at him.

"So long, of course, that the shot bullet doesn't hit anything in the meantime."

"Castle, Osaki and Bonney were killed with a knife."

"I know."

"So what does that have to do with the case?"

"Nothing." Rick grinned. "I just thought a useless piece of information might lighten the atmosphere." _And cover up my mind wandering to places it should stay out of,_ he added to himself.

"It doesn't need lightening. What it needs is enlightenment."

"Nice distinction," he approved.

"Thanks." She shook her head, rolling her eyes at him just as the phone rang, and she reached across to pick it up. "Beckett."

"_It's me, Kate."_ Lanie Parish, ME extraordinaire.

"Hey, Lanie." Kate put the phone onto speaker and replaced the receiver. "What do you have for me?"

"_William Bonney. My preliminary time of death was slightly out, mainly due to the weather, so I'd now set it between 1 and 3 am this morning."_

Kate glanced at Rick. "It's not surprising nobody saw anything. Anyone around the Park that time of the morning was probably up to no good."

"And they wouldn't be likely to tell the cops anything," Rick agreed.

Lanie went on, _"And I can confirm he was killed with a knife, from behind, left to right across the throat. No hesitation marks, so I'd guess somebody knew what they were doing. Exactly the same as Clyde Osaki. Except he died in the water and Billy died on dry land."_

"Any idea of the kind of knife?"

"_I agree with Sidney over that."_

'_Sidney_?' Rick mouthed.

'_Perlmutter'_, Kate supplied. "K-bar or diver's knife?"

"_I can't be any more specific."_

"Anything else?"

"_He had a significant amount of blood on his clothing that wasn't his."_

"He got a couple of good punches in on his attackers?" Rick suggested.

"_Could be, but I've got the lab testing DNA right now. Although I should say it's the same type as Sarah Richardson – AB neg, which is pretty rare."_

"Less than three percent of the population." Rick nodded towards the teacher's photo on the board. "That suggests he was around when Sarah was being tortured."

"Probably picked up the same time as her."

"She calls him, tells him what questions we were asking, maybe even says she's scared."

Kate picked it up. "They arrange to meet, only the bad guys are following her, and ..."

"Bam."

"_Uh, as fun as this is ..." _Lanie's voice came over the phone. _"I've got work to –"_

"Beckett." Ryan strode out of the office, Esposito at his back. "I've got something."

"I'll call you back, Lanie," Kate said, reaching to disconnect.

"_No, wait, I –"_ Then she was gone.

"Tell me," Kate ordered.

Ryan tapped the top page of a sheaf in his other hand. "According to Sarah Richardson's credit card statement, she rented a storage locker, a couple of blocks over from her apartment."

"So?"

"Her card was used for the deposit, but the address for secondary billing is Oliver Stanford's."

"Secondary billing ..." Kate echoed. "You mean the monthly rentals."

"Only there's more," Esposito put in. "We just rang the card company, and they said Sarah had queried the charge, but they haven't had enough time to investigate to date."

"So Sarah didn't know ..." Kate stared at the picture of Oliver Stanford. "He used her card without her knowledge."

"His and Clyde's were tapped out," Rick added.

"And they probably figured by the time the rental came around they'd be rich."

"Kate, you know what this means," Rick said, moving to stand in front of her.

"No, it doesn't."

"Come on, let your imagination run wild a minute," he pleaded. "The bad guys think Oliver and Clyde hid some if not all of the artworks, now we've got a storage locker that they apparently committed fraud to rent –"

"It's probably just got stuff for her students," Kate interrupted.

"Then why query it?" He moved just a step closer, close enough to be able to see tiny gold flecks in her eyes that might have been just reflections. "Kate, we have to go and see."

For a moment the three men held their collective breaths, then she closed her eyes, stepping back and shaking her head. But instead of telling them to come back from the realms of fantasy, she surprised them. "Ryan, call Markoway's office. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it right. Get a warrant issued, and as soon as he's signed it get it over to the storage facility. Castle and I'll go and wait for you." She looked at the other detective. "Esposito, keep on CSU – I want to know as soon as they've got anything on either the Alice statue or where Sarah was tortured."

"On it."

Rick couldn't help grinning widely. "Sometimes I think I've been a good influence on you, Kate."

She grabbed her coat. "You insult me like that again and you can stay here and keep going through the financials."

"My lips are sealed."

"I wish." Kate headed for the elevator, her faithful companion striding to keep up. "And call James Congreve. If there's anything in that locker – and I'm not going to hold my breath – we're going to need an expert."

"I'll do it from the car," Rick promised, already reaching into his coat for his cellphone.


	20. Chapter 20

"You shouldn't be here." Maggie struggled to a sitting position, James quickly moving the pillows behind her to support her.

"My dear, your protector here was loathe to tell Garvey anything beyond that you were improving." Duncan Monaghan's eyes twinkled as he glanced at James. "So I had to come in person."

"I'm infectious."

Duncan chuckled. "In all honesty, anything that had the temerity to infect me deserves my complete admiration."

Maggie had to laugh, which turned into a cough, but she managed to say, "You really think you're that intimidating?"

"I don't _think_ it."

James made a sound like a growl in the back of his throat, making Maggie glance at him sharply.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "Only if you're coming down with the 'flu too I don't think there's room in the bed for all of us."

"No, I'm fine." He realised how short he sounded, and smiled for her. "Honestly. And that _is_ a double bed."

"Am I interrupting something?" Duncan asked, looking from one to the other.

"Yes," James said.

"Well, I won't stay long. Although I did bring you one of the poppy seed plaits."

"You did?" Maggie brightened up.

"With fresh butter, just in case Mr Congreve doesn't believe in it."

"Ooh." She licked her lips. "Is it still warm?"

"The bread? Of course. Fresh out of the oven as I left the restaurant." He laughed as she sighed in anticipation. "I'll get you some. And make you some tea. I brought a blend my mother used to swear by as a certain cure for anything that ails you." He turned to James. "Kitchen?"

"I don't know about –"

"James, don't be silly," Maggie said quickly, waving away his objections. "Duncan's not going to break anything."

The big man didn't answer for a moment, then gave in. "Sure. Other side of the living room."

"I'll be a few minutes, _muirnin_," Duncan said, dropping a kiss on Maggie's forehead before leaving the bedroom.

"_Muirnin_?" James asked.

"Darling. I think." Maggie yawned.

"You need a nap, not food."

"Can't I have both?" She smiled just as her cellphone, sitting on the bedside table, chirped and played a few notes. The smile widened to a grin as she picked it up before James could get to it. Flicking it open she said brightly, "Hi."

"_Why aren't you asleep?"_ Rick asked.

"Why are you calling if you thought I was?" Maggie countered, then sneezed violently.

"_Bless you."_

"Thank you." She wiped at her nose. "What do you want?"

"_Is that any way to talk to your best friend?"_

"If you weren't my best friend I wouldn't talk to you like that."

"_That's splitting hairs."_

"I'm not well." She could imagine Rick smiling. "Did you just call me to wake me up?"

"_No. Is James there?"_

"Of course." She paused a moment. "Why didn't you call him direct?"

"_I don't have his number."_

"So this is top secret?"

"_Maggie ..."_

She could imagine the slightly exasperated look that was probably decorating his face right about now. "Where are you?"

"_In Beckett's car. We're on the move."_

"Where to?"

"_Maggie, is James there?"_

"I said yes."

"_Can I talk to him?"_

"No."

"_Maggie ..."_

"You can talk to both of us." She put the cell onto speaker. "Go ahead."

There was a long silence, then what sounded like Rick sighing heavily. _"Fine. James?"_

"I'm here." The curator sat down on the edge of the bed.

"_Is Maggie alright?"_

James felt his mouth curve, but decided not to allow the smile in case Maggie hit him. "It's the temperature. And the medication."

"_Maybe it needs adjusting."_

"I'll speak to the doctor."

"_I'd be obliged."_

"So what can I do for you?"

"_Kate and I are on our way to a storage locker that just might contain some of the things we were talking about."_

"You mean –"

"_I mean."_ Rick obviously didn't want to say anything too clearly over the phone, just in case. _"Detective Beckett would like you to join us."_

"For my specialist knowledge?"

"_Something like that. It would be nice to know we're not looking at fakes."_

"Do you think they're likely to be?"

"_Right now, your guess is as good as ours. Probably, although I hate to say it, __**better**__ than ours."_

James couldn't help smiling a little as he rummaged in the bedside table for a pen and something to write on. "No problem." He found a post-it pad. "Give me the address."

Rick obliged, then asked, _"Mags, will you be okay on your own for a while?"_

"I'm not dying, Rick," Maggie said witheringly.

"_Humour me."_

"I'll be fine. I'm sure Duncan will stay if I ask nicely."

"_Duncan's there?"_

"Mmn. He came to see how I was."

"_Is he listening?"_

"No." Maggie looked up at James, confusion growing on her face. "Why?"

James put in quickly, "He's making tea."

"_Then ... best not to say anything to him about this."_

"I understand."

Clearly Maggie didn't, but when she opened her mouth to comment James shook his finger at her.

"_Good. We're pulling in now. Any idea how long you'll be?"_

"Half an hour? The traffic's going to be heavy."

"_See you then. And ... Mags?"_

"What?" she asked, clearly annoyed at being left out.

"_Get some rest." _The line went dead.

"Okay, what's going on?" Maggie demanded.

"Nothing. I'm just going to help them with their enquiries." James went to the wardrobe and pulled out a jacket.

"Then I'm coming with you." She pushed back the covers.

"Oh, no you're not." In a moment he was back at her side, pressing her into the pillow. "You could end up with pneumonia, pleurisy ... worse ... so you even consider doing anything that stupid and ..."

"And what?" She stared at him belligerently.

"And I'll get angry at you."

The annoyance faded as she studied him. "I've never seen you angry."

"Believe me, it isn't pretty."

"Do you go all green and burst out of your clothes?" she asked hopefully.

"My nose goes red." He tucked the sheet back around her.

"I doubt that."

"And I cry a lot."

"Uh uh."

"Then I hide under the bed."

"Men," she said dismissively. "Always exaggerating." She yawned again.

"Try and get some sleep while I'm gone."

"Why, what did you have planned for later?"

James leaned down so his face was close to hers. "If I told you that, it wouldn't be a surprise." Then he surprised them both by kissing her.

Maggie's eyes were very wide. "Why, Mr Congreve ..."

"Yes, Miss Maguire?"

She chuckled, her normal light laugh a more throaty sound that made parts of him twitch that should really have known better. "Hurry back. I think maybe we have a lot to talk about."

"I will." Another quick brush of his lips over hers, and he stood up. "Sleep."

"Spoilsport."

"Absolutely." He hurried out of the bedroom before his better judgement was entirely seduced.

"Going somewhere?" Duncan appeared in the kitchen doorway, a bread knife in his hand.

"Yes," James said, slipping his arms into his jacket sleeves. "I have to go out. Can you look after Maggie while I'm gone?"

"Of course I'll stay. Where are you off to?"

"Work." James shook his head. "You know how these things go, even when you're not available they still find you."

"I know the feeling."

Taking an overcoat from the closet by the front door James went on, "The tablets she took a while back are starting to kick in, so she shouldn't be too much bother."

"Over and above being Maggie, you mean," Duncan said, smiling slightly.

"Well, there is that. I shouldn't be too long."

"As long as you need. Would you like to borrow my car? Garvey will take you wherever you want to go."

James shook his head. "No, thanks. I'll take a cab." He went to leave, but turned back at the last moment. "I know who you are," he said in a low voice so there was no chance of Maggie hearing through the partly open bedroom door.

"Do you now."

"I have friends, who have acquaintances, who heard things from a long time ago."

"Is that right." Duncan tested the tip of the bread knife with his thumb.

"Don't hurt Maggie."

The old man gazed at the younger, then nodded slowly. "I wasn't intending to."

"Good. Good." James stepped out into the corridor. "And just so you know, hurting Maggie also includes hurting her friends." He closed the door gently, when what he really wanted to do was slam it shut.

Duncan stared sightlessly for what seemed like an age before he was startled from his reverie by his own cellphone trilling in his pocket. Taking it out he barely glanced at the caller ID before thumbing 'respond' and saying, "Yes?" He listened for a few seconds. "No. Wait." A pause. "Because I say so. There's no point in getting on the wrong side of the police if we don't have to." Another ten seconds, and the voice on the other end was getting annoyed. "I don't care what you think. Not over this. If you listen to me then we're all going to come out winners, and without blood being shed." There was a burst of anger, then the line cut off.

He turned to gaze at the bedroom, his expression thoughtful, then he hotkeyed a number. "Garvey. I've got a job for you ..."

* * *

The supervisor of the storage facility had been helpful, but not enough to use his master key to unlock no. 19.

"More than my job's worth," he said, shaking his curly-topped head. "And in this economic climate I can't afford to lose it, not with a wife and two kids to look after."

Considering he looked about nineteen he shouldn't have been surprised at the stare both Kate and Rick gave him.

"That's okay," Kate said, giving him a smile as well. "We're got a warrant on its way."

The young man nodded. "I mean, I shouldn't really have told you about the signing in book."

"Hey, we won't tell if you don't," Rick assured him.

"Great. Thanks."

Not that there had been much to tell. Clyde Osaki and Oliver Stanford had signed in three times in quick succession over four days, almost up to the time of their deaths, but there'd been no other interest shown in that particularly locker.

Still, the young man was clearly worried about his lack of co-operation. "Can I help you in any other way? Coffee? Sandwich? There's a halfway decent place just around the corner, and they do a great meatball sub –"

"No," Kate interrupted quickly. "But thanks."

"Okay. I'll be in my office when you're ready." He slouched back towards a modern prefab by the gate, a shining example of efficiency.

Kate chuckled and walked towards her car, sitting outside no.19. The storage facility wasn't purpose-built, just a collection of metal containers set up on a vacant lot. Still, some people didn't want – or couldn't afford – the air-conditioned, humidity controlled environments of the more upmarket variety. Locker 19 was set towards the side, against the wire fencing, more than enough room in front of it for Kate's vehicle.

"Why did you say no to his offer?" Rick complained, grumping into his coat collar as he followed her. "I'm hungry."

"I'm not having my car smell of food again. It took days for me to forget you had that burger."

His eyes closed slightly as he remembered the taste, the fried onions, the relish, the juicy succulence of the meat as his teeth sank into its perfectly cooked interior ...

Kate sighed, but hid the smile as she unlocked the driver's door.

* * *

"What's going on?" Maggie demanded even as she wolfed down a piece of warm bread with an unhealthy amount of butter oozing into it.

"Going on?" Duncan asked, pouring from the teapot he'd found.

"You and James. You're both walking on eggs around each other."

Duncan handed her a cup. "Here. Drink it up before it gets cold."

"Not until you tell me."

"It's nothing."

"Duncan ..."

The old man sighed. "He doesn't trust me."

"Why?"

Duncan had to smile. "Because I'm not trustworthy, Maggie. You know that."

"Is that all?"

"Does there have to be anything else?"

"No, I suppose not." She sipped the tea then picked up another piece of bread. "You know, I'd stay awake for days just for this." She put it into her mouth just as she yawned around it.

"I doubt that's going to happen." Duncan took a mouthful of his own tea, feeling the warmth soothe his old throat, before reaching across and picking up one of the books strewn across the bed. "You've been reading this?"

"I have to do something. And James and I were discussing things." She grinned tiredly. "That one is a bit more ... red-blooded than the others."

"_Carving up the Big Apple_." Duncan laughed. "Leverwitt has no idea."

"And you do?"

"More than you know." He sat back, feeling his bones protesting slightly as he turned the pages. A scrap of paper fluttered from inside the book to the floor. He reached to pick it up.

"Oh, don't worry," Maggie said. "It's just a bookmark."

"Something you found particularly interesting, _a chailin mo chroi_?"

'My darling girl.' It had been years since he'd called her that, and she had to smile. "A photo." She took the book, thumbing the pages quickly then holding it back out. "Look."

He stared at the photo of the three brothers, Albert, Vito and Gianni. "God, I remember that being taken."

"You were there?"

"Vito and Ariadne's wedding." For a moment he was back there, in the sunshine, the perfume from all the flowers making his head swim, or maybe it was Ariadne in that white dress ...

Maggie's voice broke into his memories. "Rick said you worked for Terry Malone."

"That I did."

"You never told me."

"Was there any reason to?"

"In all the things you've told me about those days, you never mentioned it."

"Maybe I'm ashamed of it."

"You?"

"It was a long time ago, Maggie." His Irish burr was more pronounced than ever. "And I thought you were more interested in stories from the myths back home."

"I was. Mainly because I could see how people hadn't changed all that much."

"They don't."

"Were you and Ariadne ... lovers?" Maggie asked slowly.

He found himself unable to answer for a long moment. "How ..."

"Nothing concrete," she admitted. "Just putting two and two together. What you told Rick, mostly."

"I keep forgetting you can be an inspired writer." He smiled again. "That amazing imagination of yours."

"And the way you looked just now when you said her name." She moved down in the bed so her head was on the pillows. "Are you still friends?"

"No, not anymore." Duncan twisted the emerald ring on his little finger. "She has Vito, their children ... what would she want an old restaurateur for?"

"Your poppy seed plait?" Her eyes were getting heavy. "Did she give you that ring?"

"What this?" He held up his hand. "No. No, this came from a far more nefarious source."

"You mean illegal."

"Perhaps. But it reminds me of home."

"Home was a long time ago."

"Ah, Maggie, but sometimes memories are all we have."

"I always did like it. The ring, I mean," she admitted, not bothering to stifle the yawn this time.

"I know, I remember you playing with it when you were little."

"It was the way it sparkled," she admitted. "Especially when you told me that if I looked deep enough I could see Cúchulainn in it."

"You used to nag me to tell you the stories." He smiled. "Suitably censored, of course."

"I know. My mother bought me a book of them, and I was positive you'd left out some of the more gory bits."

"You were only four or five." He moved the ring around on his finger, its looseness a testament to his age. "It's in my will for you to have."

"It's stolen property."

"The statute of limitations ran out a long time ago. And I doubt the original owner is all that worried about it. It was probably wildly overinsured."

"That's just splitting hairs."

"It's the one thing I kept. Out of so many beautiful things that have passed through my hands, it was the only thing that called to my Irish soul."

"Your Irish soul shouldn't have been involved in illegal activities in the first place."

"Ah, but perhaps I didn't have a choice."

"Everyone has a choice, Duncan." Her eyelids dipped. For a moment she struggled to keep them open, but it was all far too much effort, and she slipped into sleep.

Duncan watched her for a minute longer, then stood up slowly. She snuffled, then began to snore gently, her nose congested. For once he was glad she wasn't well – with her fertile imagination and ability to store useless facts she would probably have put two and two together eventually, and he couldn't have that. Not yet.

And maybe she was right. Maybe he did have a choice, after all these years.

Successfully gaining the living room without disturbing her, he crossed to the old fashioned telephone on the desk, pressing the button that announced _Lobby_. When it was picked up at the other end he said, "I'd be grateful if you could call me a cab. I've got an urgent appointment I'm already late for."

* * *

The sun was starting to drop, taking the temperature with it as Rick and Kate waited for the warrant.

"It's going to be empty, you know that," Rick said, staring at the pitted metal door.

"Or full of old furniture," Kate agreed.

"Maybe an ancient Volkswagen."

She turned enough to eye him. "You'd keep a car in a storage locker?"

"I do with the Daimler."

"Daimler?"

He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "A spur of the moment purchase," he assured her.

"Hmmn. I'm surprised."

"At my financial profligacy?"

"No. I'd have thought you were more a Ferrari type of guy."

He carefully didn't meet her eyes, and changed the subject. "What it won't be is full of art works."

"No." She knew she'd come close to hitting something, but backed away, filing it for another day. "Sarah Richardson probably used it for school stuff." Although, come to think of it, they hadn't asked the supervisor if Sarah had ever signed in.

He sat up a little. "That's an idea."

"What?" Had he picked up on her stray thoughts?

"We're not far from Sarah's, are we?"

"A block and a half. Probably why she chose this one."

"Maybe she didn't choose anything? What if this _is_ down to Oliver and Clyde?"

"They sound like a comedy double act. But go on."

"You said they were both maxed out on their credit cards."

Kate nodded slowly, starting to get his drift. "And the initial deposit on this place was pretty hefty, so neither of them could really afford it."

"Maybe Oliver asked Sarah to put it in her name, said they were going to be leaving their diving gear here. Perhaps he span some story about how there'd been a spate of break-ins down his way, and he couldn't afford to lose the means to his livelihood."

"Sounds plausible."

"He promises to make the monthly payments, which is why the billing address is his."

"So?"

"So what if it wasn't Sarah's place he was trying to get to the day he died?" Rick glanced out into the lengthening shadows. "You said, it's less than two blocks from her place, and that means it's the same from the warehouse where his body was found. What if he was trying to get to their hoard?"

"So you've changed your mind? It's not some old car inside, but those priceless works of art?"

"I'm coming to think that, yes." He grinned. "Come on, Kate. Think about it. We know the bad guys didn't get everything –"

"We've _postulated_ that, yes."

"I love it when you use long words." At her look he quickly went on, "Because if the bad guys _did_ get everything then there'd be no reason to torture Sarah."

"They might not know they got everything."

He shook his head, the smug expression back on his face. "Ah, but I'd be willing to bet all the royalties from the next Nikki Heat book that whoever did the original break-in at Penn Station is involved now, and they know exactly what was in the truck."

"Okay, say you're right. Then why didn't Sarah tell the men who kidnapped her about the locker when they asked?"

"Maybe she didn't put two and two together. She'd have been terrified, and they were hurting her ... I can imagine my mind not wanting to work under those circumstances."

"Especially if she had no idea what Stanford and Osaki had found."

The smugness slid from Rick's eyes. "You know, maybe she did. We've no proof that they haven't already ransacked the locker."

"There's only one way in, Castle," Kate said. "And unless they were very, very good, the lock hasn't been tampered with. I'd say whatever's inside was intact."

His good humour resurfaced and he rubbed his hands together. "Then we might be about to step into an Aladdin's cave."

"Or not, considering the time it's taking for the warrant." She got out her cellphone and dialled, putting it on speaker.

"_Esposito."_

"Beckett. Where's our warrant?"

"_Ryan's having trouble. Markoway's on the golf course, and the officials won't let him out onto the 14__th__ tee."_

Rick leaned over. "Talk to Pruitt, he's the course manager. Drop my name – he'll arrange it."

"_Will do. Thanks, Castle."_ There was the sound of paper shuffling. _"I was just about to call you anyway. We got a hit on the fingerprints at the abandoned building where Sarah Richardson was held."_

"Already?"

"_Didn't have to go through AFIS – it's in our own system."_

Kate felt a trickle of something run down her neck, and it wasn't the cold. "Are you telling me –"

"_William Bonney, aka Billy the Kid."_

"He was there when Sarah was tortured?" She glanced at Rick. "No wonder he was planning on running. They must have tried get him to talk as well."

"No, that doesn't make sense," Rick put in. "Even if we're right and he and Sarah had sold out our two divers, he cleaned out his locker before she got taken. How would he know to do that?"

"_Castle's right, but for the wrong reasons," _Esposito interrupted._ "I checked with Elysium again – Billy was waiting yesterday morning when the cleaners arrived at 6 am – that's when he took his stuff."_

"After Sarah died." Kate's lips pursed.

"_There's more,"_ Esposito went on. _"Forensics won't swear to it, but they think he might have been involved in her torture. They found her blood at the scene, and some of Billy's fingerprints were in it."_

"He might have been taken with her, and just got away."

"_I wondered that, so I spoke to Lanie. She says the bruises on Billy's knuckles were twenty four hours old, and are a match to some latents that have come up on Sarah's body."_

"So Billy was alive, kicking – and possibly punching and breaking fingers," Rick said softly.

"Looks like we found our link," Kate agreed. She spoke into the phone. "Take Bonney's life apart. He's a suspect now, not a victim. And he didn't do this all by himself – I want to know everything about him for when I get back, cradle to grave."

"_You got it, boss."_ The line went dead.

Rick smiled grimly. "Someone put a lot of tiny bits of the jigsaw puzzle together and got pretty much the whole picture. And they're willing to kill to keep it."

Someone knocked on the window, and he jumped, making a somewhat feminine squeak.

Kate chuckled. "It's James," she said, unlocking the back door so the art curator could slide inside.

"Hi," James said. "Damn, but it's cold."

"Always is when you're waiting," Kate said, turning in her seat. "How's Maggie?"

"Exhausted. But I think she's getting better."

"Good."

"She ... ah ... filled me in on the rest of your case."

Kate's eyebrow raised a millimetre. "Did she."

"Don't be angry with her. I put it down to the drugs she's on at the moment, otherwise she'd never have said anything." James smiled, the expression warming his face. "She's not exactly herself."

"So who is she?"

"A bad patient."

Rick laughed, despite himself. "She always was."

They shared a moment of companionship over a mutual friend, then looked away from each other, the natural testosterone kicking back in.

Kate smiled.

James rubbed at the scar on his cheek, his curiosity overcoming his discomfort. "Can I ask why you didn't want Duncan Monaghan to know where I was going?"

"Because of Billy Bonney."

"Who?"

Rick realised the curator knew nothing of the latest happenings, and with a quick glance at Kate for tacit permission, filled him in. "And since Billy worked at _Elysium_, and Duncan's past isn't exactly squeaky clean ..."

James could feel anger burning deep inside him. "And you made me leave Maggie with him?"

"He won't hurt her," Rick said. "Believe me, she's like family to him." _Even down to offering to kill her blood father_, he thought but didn't add.

"He's not exactly been good to family, you know."

"What are you talking about?" Kate turned in her seat. "What do you know that we don't?"

For a moment it looked like James was about to spill something, then he shook his head. "It's nothing. Just gossip. I've no hard proof."

"James, I've worked with Castle here long enough to know that, just occasionally, gossip and soft evidence can lead places I never expected to go." She fixed him with her clear eyes. "Tell us."

His mouth was set in a stubborn line, but James knew he had to. "I ... think he was involved in the original robbery."

Kate and Rick looked at each other, but it was the author who said, "You _think_?"

"Putting things together. Like how he worked for Terry Malone, had known Ariadne all her life. Like how he was at the wedding. Like how he suddenly had enough cash to open his first restaurant."

"He was a mobster," Kate said. "Maybe not high up, but I think the term applies."

"And the robbery was more than a decade before he retired," Rick pointed out.

"So he was careful." James sat forward, resting his elbows on the seats in front. "Yes, he was a mobster. A wise guy. But he was intelligent, too."

"And that makes a difference?"

James glared at Rick. "You're a writer. A damn good one, even if I am loathe to admit to reading your books. You obviously do a lot of research, just like me. What do you think?"

Rick glanced over at Kate. "He has a point," he admitted. "Intelligent mobsters either make a bid for glory and end up a footnote in concrete, or they keep their heads down and work from the inside. You think Duncan did that."

"He's still alive. And so many of his contemporaries aren't. His boss, Terry Malone, got blown up, you knew that?"

"Duncan told me."

"Well I have a source who has it that Duncan Monaghan himself was responsible for it, a pre-emptive strike because he heard Terry was about to put a hit out on him for something he'd been involved in."

"The Penn Station robbery," Kate put in.

"That's the rumour."

She exhaled sharply. "That's what this case is full of, rumour."

"It's nearly sixty years ago, Kate," Rick pointed out. "And most people didn't exactly keep diaries." He turned back to James. "So you think he was in on it with Gianni Viducci?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if he planned it, or at least assisted Albert."

"Albert?" Kate was lost. "Who's Albert?"

"The third Viducci brother," Rick explained. "Come on, Kate, keep up."

"I'm armed, you know."

He tossed her a grin then looked at James. "Albert hasn't surfaced so far, at least not beyond that photo."

"He won't. Surface, that is. He was killed in the gang war that followed the robbery, apparently attempting to revenge the kidnap and murder of his brother Gianni."

"Who we now know went down with the truck," Rick said.

"After being stabbed in the throat," Kate added.

"Vito's the only surviving brother," James went on. "He kept his head down and managed to make it to his eighties. He's still around."

"He's involved?" Kate asked. "In the original theft, the current murders, or both?"

"I don't know," James said, shrugging. "I ... don't know."

She looked at Rick. "Castle?"

"I'm in the same boat," he had to admit. "I could make something up, if you like ... maybe it's the CIA."

Her expression darkened. "I tell you, there'd better be something in that locker, or I'm likely to take it out on the first person I meet."

James sat back slowly, and Rick tried to hide in the corner of his seat.

* * *

It took another thirty-eight minutes by Kate's father's watch for Ryan to finally pull up, during which James and Rick had tried to keep quiet but eventually starting to toss increasingly wild theories about, this time trying her patience to the limit.

The detective climbed out of his car, waving the blue warrant paper, waiting for them to join him by the makeshift office, and Kate couldn't be happier to see him.

"Sorry about that," the Irish detective said, coat collar pulled up around his neck. "And Judge Markoway told me to tell you that you'd better let him win next time, or he's going to tell everyone about the salmon."

"Salmon?" Kate asked, turning her clear hazel gaze on her partner.

"He doesn't know what he's talking about," Rick insisted. "It was a trout."

"Am I missing something?" James asked in turn.

"I wouldn't worry about it," Ryan said. "Everybody but them usually does."

The supervisor hurried out from the prefab, his curls topped with a gaudy black and yellow striped knitted hat, making him look like he had a huge bumblebee on top of his head. "Took you long enough, didn't it?" he asked. "On those TV shows everyone just breaks the door down."

"Well, they don't get the procedure right all the time," Kate said, checking the warrant before handing it over. "Here it is, signed and sealed."

The young man barely glanced at it. "Great. Let me get the key."

"All that ... for _that_?" Ryan murmured. "He didn't even read it."

"You want a pat on the head?" Kate asked. "I'm sure Castle will oblige."

"Uh, no, thanks."

She smiled just as the supervisor came back out, holding up a bunch of keys. "It's this one," he said, holding them out. "Says 19 on it."

"Come on then," Kate said.

"Um, no, if you don't mind I'll leave it up to you." He dropped the keys into Ryan's hand. "Only I've heard stories about the kind of things you find in storage lockers. Disgusting things. Dead things. Aliens ..." He shuddered. "So you can open it. That's fine." He scuttled back into the golden-lit security of his office.

"Aliens?" James looked at Rick, then held up a gloved hand. "You know, I don't want to know."

"Okay," Kate said. "Then if we're ready, let's go." She led the way back to storage locker no. 19.


	21. Chapter 21

The key stuck. Half a turn only and Kate was wondering whether she should try to force it.

"You'll break it," Rick said, reading her indecision on her face. "Do you want me to try?"

Kate glared at him, then looked at Ryan. "See if our friend has any oil we can use."

"Will do." Ryan jogged towards the office.

"Are you sure he gave you the right one?" Rick asked.

"It says 19."

"Maybe it's 61. You know ... he read it upside down."

"There aren't sixty-one containers."

"Maybe they can't count."

Kate stared at him until he began to fidget, then – against her better judgement, and with a long-suffering look at James – she tried key 61. That didn't turn at all. "See?"

Rick grinned, the infuriating smirk that made her want to tweak his ear, and James rubbed idly at the scar on his cheek, keeping well out of it.

Ryan jogged back, a can in his hand. "Here."

"Great." Kate stood back. "Give it a spray."

The detective nodded and went down onto his heels, inserting the nozzle into the lock. He pressed the button and liquid fizzed into the interior, blowback spattering his hands. "Oh, great," he muttered.

"Just rub it in," Rick advised. "It's probably good for your skin."

"Next time you can do it, then," Kate commented.

"I'll have you know I have skin like a baby's."

"And the intellect sometimes, too."

"I'm innocent, I tell you. Innocent," Rick insisted, smiling.

"Are they always like this?" James asked, half leaning over Ryan.

"'Fraid so," the Irishman confirmed. "Sometimes I think they should go on tour." He stood straight, wiping at the backs of his hands. "Try it now."

Kate took his place and tried the key again. This time, with barely a catch inside the lock, the tumblers fell into place and it dropped open.

Rick could feel his heart beating faster, anticipation growing in his stomach like a fire burning through underbrush in a gale. He realised he was rubbing his hands together, and thrust them deep into his pockets in order to look slightly less avaricious. Not that any of what they were about to uncover was going to be his, but after all they'd been through he felt something in the way of possession. If Detective Beckett would ever open the damn door.

Then Kate's cellphone went. She took it from her pocket. "Beckett."

"Are you kidding me?" Rick asked, this time unable to stop himself holding his hands out in front of him, palms up.

She motioned him to be quiet

"Is she serious?" James asked, turning to Rick. "She takes a call? Now?"

"I feel like I should be apologising for her," Rick said, shaking his head. "She has no sense of the dramatic."

"I could ..." Ryan offered, gesturing towards the lock still hanging from the hasp.

Kate shook her head, covering the cell with one hand. "It's about Harrison," she said. "And you can wait another minute."

"No, I can't," Rick grumbled, but still feeling a frisson of guilt that he was more interested in whatever was in the locker and not in Maggie's nemesis.

Kate was talking into her phone. "That's great. We'll drop by as soon as we get back." She hung up.

"Well?" Rick asked.

Slipping the cell back into her pocket she fixed him with her clear hazel gaze. "Don't you want to see what's inside?"

"Kate."

She smiled, enjoying the feeling of, for once, winding him up. "The techs have found something on the information Maggie's publishers have provided."

"Good something or bad something?" James wanted to know, stepping forwards.

"Good something," Kate confirmed. "Don't worry," she added, patting his arm. "I'm sure we'll get it sorted."

He nodded. "Thank you."

Rick watched them, saw the sincere concern on the bigger man's face, and knew he was leaving Maggie in good hands. It might be worth threatening Congreve with physical harm again, just so he knew that if he hurt her then that pain would come back on him, multiplied by quite a lot, but Rick was sure it wasn't really necessary. He'd seen that look on other men's faces once or twice, if not (as yet) on his own, and it had turned out to be true love. It still didn't stop him having to stamp on the stab of jealousy, though, even if he knew he wouldn't lose his best friend.

He coughed. "Kate? The locker?"

She raised an eyebrow at him, then turned back to the metal container, hiding her own smirk. The padlock was slid from the hasp quickly and dropped unheeded to the cold ground, then she lifted the lever. "Ready?" she asked.

The three men behind her all nodded, and Ryan took hold of the other door. They pulled, a high pitched squeal of metal announcing the hinges needed oil as much as the lock, but it was ignored as the last rays of daylight fell into the container.

"Oh. My. God." Kate's jaw had fallen to her chest.

"Couldn't agree more." Rick was staring.

"Damn." Ryan was much more succinct, but his eyes were as huge as saucers.

James didn't say a word, just stepped into the container and surrounded himself with ... Art. And it had to be capitalised, there was no other way to describe it. In fact, it should really be capital A. Capital R. Capital T. ART.

"Shit," he finally muttered as he stared around.

Maybe a dozen pictures were leaned against the metal wall at the back, the one facing them showing an idyllic pastoral scene of three people sitting on a wrought iron bench under a tree, a large country house in distant background. Next to them was a white marble statue of a woman, naked except for the swathe of delicately carved fabric around her ample hips, while the top of what looked like a mosaic table was balanced against the side. On the floor in clear plastic bags small items glittered green, red and gold.

"Unbelievable," Kate murmured, stepping a little unsteadily into the darkened interior, turning on a small flashlight.

"You had that with you?" Rick asked, unable to stop himself.

"Be prepared."

"Girl scout?"

"Tom Lehrer fan."

Rick grinned but followed her, Ryan close behind.

"I feel seriously underdressed," the detective said, shaking his head. "Like I should be in my Sunday best in a gallery."

"Any museum in the world would give their eye teeth for this collection," James put in. "Hell, I'd give my eye teeth and first born."

"It would be like going to see King Tut," Kate agreed.

He glanced at her, his face pale in the torchlight. "If this was just one truck, can you imagine what was in the others?" he asked, his deep voice oddly hoarse.

Rick didn't say what he was thinking, that it had to be something special to get James Congreve all hot under the collar like this, mainly because he was feeling something of the same himself.

Kate took a deep breath. "Ryan, you'd better go and call the precinct. I think we're going to need a truck."

"On it." Ryan pulled out his cell but there was only one bar showing, so he stepped back into the open air.

"What will happen to it all?" Rick asked, going down onto his heels and carefully moving the pictures by just the corners so he could look at the other canvases.

"I guess the art squad will look into who owns them, and probably try and return them to the various families." She was examining a second statue, this time of a dog, life-size and sitting on one haunch, gazing up lovingly at the viewer. It seemed to have been carved from something like sandstone, and even to her untrained eye it looked to be ancient, and obviously created by someone who loved animals: she could almost hear him panting.

"Good luck to them." His eye was caught by a depiction of a cornfield with stars above it in a deep blue sky, looking undeniably like a Van Gogh, just as a thought occurred to him. "I thought these were all wrapped in plastic?"

James, a jeweller's loupe screwed into his eye as he checked over one of the bags of jewels, glanced up. "I imagine your two divers removed it, making sure the water hadn't got in." He shook his head slightly. "And I'd say they were damn lucky."

"It's possible they tossed anything that was damaged," Kate suggested.

Rick revolved on his heel and stared at her. "Don't go saying things like that!" he insisted. "Just the thought that there might be a Matisse, a Lautrec or a Rembrandt in a dumpster, covered in left over Chinese takeaway ..." He shuddered theatrically.

"I never knew you were into art that much."

"I'm not quite the computer game loving Philistine you think I am."

"No?"

James spoke quietly, not really listening to them. "You know, I'm not a jewellery expert, but I think these might be the Romanoff diamonds."

Kate's head went up. "Romanoff? As in the Russian Tsars?"

"As in. Alexandra and her daughters were supposed to have sewn them into their dresses to hide them, but after they were all assassinated the –"

Something banged on the metal container, interrupting them.

Kate turned quickly, her hand going automatically towards her gun. "Ryan?"

"Don't, Detective," a man's voice said. "You'll be dead before you draw it."

Nobody moved for a long moment then Kate called, "I'm a police officer. Whatever you think you're doing, you're breaking the law."

"You think I don't know that?" The man laughed, but there was no pleasantness in it. "Come outside. And keep your hands where we can see them."

Rick glanced at Kate, her face impassive, but just as he'd read her annoyance with the lock he could read her now. She _could_ draw her gun, start blasting, but as neither James nor himself were armed Rick knew she wouldn't do that. They didn't know how many people were outside, and if Ryan was already hurt, possibly even dead ...

"We're coming out," Kate said, looking at the two men then stepping forwards, her high heeled boots ringing on the metal floor, hands held away from her sides.

* * *

The cab drew up in the long shadow thrown by one of the tall buildings, and Duncan Monaghan sat forward.

"Are you sure this is it?"

The driver half turned, scratching the dark five-o'clock shadow on his chin. "This is the address you gave me. Maybe your pal got it wrong."

Duncan shook his head slowly. Garvey didn't make mistakes like that. Then he stiffened. "No, we're good." Quickly handing over several bills he got out of the cab, feeling his back protesting as he leaned on his cane to push himself upright.

The cab pulled away from the curb, but Duncan ignored it, heading towards the storage locker facility, following the figures he'd seen sneaking inside.

* * *

"Just keep coming."

Kate stayed in front, hoping Castle wasn't going to do anything crazy like try to protect her, although she was more worried about James Congreve – she didn't know him, and from his size and obvious muscles under the handmade suit she couldn't be sure he wouldn't want to get stuck in either. "Don't do anything stupid," she called, but it was as much for her companions as the men outside.

"We won't if you won't."

She stepped out through the doors, and as her feet touched the ground lights came on all around her, illuminating the storage containers and pushing back the dusk, probably on a timer to deter thieves. She blinked, trying to acclimate her eyesight as quickly as possible, maybe even using it to her advantage, but the three men holding guns on her weren't phased. "Okay. We're here. Now what?"

The man in the middle took a pace forwards, his fleshy face split in what might have been mistaken for a friendly grin, at least until his eyes were taken into account. "I take my property."

"Your property?"

He shrugged, his expensive camelhair coat settling easily back onto broad shoulders, a sparkle of light from the diamond tie pin picking out his red silk tie. "Technically my family's, but I'm sure we don't have to mince words here."

"You're Angelo Viducci," James blurted out.

"Angelo?" Kate didn't turn her head, keeping all her attention on the man in front of her, but she had to ask.

"Vito Viducci's eldest son," the curator explained.

Rick found himself nodding, recognising him from his own research into the Viducci family, although there was something else familiar about his face, now that he saw him in person, perhaps the jawline ...

"I'm surprised you've heard of me," Angelo said, almost admiringly.

"Your name gets around."

Someone groaned, and Kate glanced down to where Ryan lay on the compacted earth, face down. At least he was alive. "Was that necessary?" she asked, but Angelo just shrugged again.

Rick's eyes were flicking between the two other gunmen, one in a leather jacket and black jeans, the other dressed not unlike himself in a striped suit and heavy coat. Not that what they were wearing was more important than the two weapons in their hands, one a revolver, the other an automatic, both equally deadly and both pointed at Kate.

"So which one of you is the killer?" he asked, at least trying to split their attention.

"Killer?" Angelo turned his blue-eyed gaze onto Rick. "Now, that isn't polite to accuse us of being so callous."

"There are four bodies in the morgue."

"Four?" Angelo glanced at his companions. "Did we kill four people?"

"Three," leather jacket said. "I'm pretty sure I didn't manage to kill Stanford."

"Not for lack of trying," Rick muttered.

"No, not for that," the gunman agreed. "And it was a truck that did for Ms Richardson I believe."

"Hey, two out of four isn't bad."

"Castle ..." Kate warned.

A fourth man in a grey turtleneck and brown suede jacket dragged the facility supervisor into view by the scruff of the neck, tossing him onto the dirt next to Ryan, where he cowered in fear.

"It doesn't really matter," Angelo said. "You're not going to be around to tell anyone."

"That would be really, really stupid," Kate said slowly, keeping her voice calm. "I'm a cop, so's he." She nodded down at Ryan. "If you shoot us, the NYPD won't rest until you're behind bars. If you're lucky."

"If they find you." He smiled coldly. "We're on an island surrounded by water ... and you wouldn't be the first to have that as your final resting place."

Kate felt time begin to slow. Four men with guns, and her only back-up was on the ground. Admittedly she had the distinct impression that he wasn't quite as groggy as he appeared, but there was no way they would be able to take the bad guys. Not unless it was absolutely necessary. Which, unfortunately was getting more and more likely. She began planning her attack.

"No." A different voice, steady.

Rick's head jerked around. "Duncan?"

* * *

**A.N.:** Hang on in there, folks, we're heading down the home straight ... And thanks to everyone who reviews - they make a grey day that much brighter!


	22. Chapter 22

**A.N. **Please forgive the unconscionable delay between chapters - my Muse and I had a falling out, and she has only recently decided to let bygones be bygones and come home. You might want to skim the previous chapter again to remember what was happening, but we're getting to the denouement now! Jane0904

* * *

"What the hell are you doing here?" Angelo Viducci demanded.

Duncan Monaghan shook his head as he moved into the pool of light. "Hopefully stopping you doing something else stupid."

Angelo sneered. "You don't talk to me like that, old man. It's your fault we're in this predicament as it is."

"It was Vito's plan – I just did what he said."

"And now you're going to do what_ I_ say." Angelo lifted his weapon as emphasis, turning back to Kate. "Take out your gun. Carefully, fingertips only, and drop it."

"Angelo –" Kate began but was cut off.

"Do it. Or your boyfriend here has to live without his kneecaps." The gun swung towards Rick, then lowered.

Rick swallowed, his writer's imagination filling in the agony.

"Fine." With just the tips of her thumb and index finger, Kate pulled the pistol from its holster at her waist, holding it at arm's length and dropping it.

"That's better," Angelo said, as if she'd done something clever.

"Now what?"

Angelo smiled.

Duncan sighed, then looked at Rick. "You don't seem very surprised."

"Not particularly." Rick's lips tightened. "I wish I'd been wrong."

"You knew?" Kate asked, more than a little annoyed. "That Duncan was a part of this?"

Rick glanced at her. "Not until just now, but I suspected. When Billy turned up dead."

"And you didn't say anything?"

"Come on, Kate. You thought so too."

"That's not the point."

"You didn't tell _me_."

"I didn't have to."

"Only because I knew already."

"And you should have told me as soon as you had an idea."

"You generally blow my theories out of the water."

"Because they're generally to do with the CIA!"

Ryan, his world slowly coming back into focus, knew what they were up to. He might be feeling woozy from the blow to his head, and he could taste tin from where he'd bitten the inside of his cheek, but he still understood what was happening. Divide the bad guys attention, make it difficult for them to concentrate on one particular target, and maybe there'd be a chance. Slim, anorexic even, but a chance nevertheless.

"Not always," Rick whined.

"Castle –"

"Enough!" Angelo said loudly, interrupting them. "Are you always like this?" he asked, his eyes narrowed.

"Yes!" both Kate and Rick said together, although the detective's attention had never wavered from the men with the guns.

"I might just kill you right now to shut you up." His weapon swung from side to side.

"You're not going to kill anyone," Duncan said, leaning on his cane, looking more like an old man than he had in a long time.

"Don't be ridiculous – of course I am. And you don't have any say in it." Angelo tightened his grip.

"It's not necessary."

"They know who we are."

"So they know. _Buachaill_, the statute of limitations ran out a long time ago on the theft."

"And on the four dead people?"

"Oh, Angelo." Duncan couldn't have looked more disappointed.

The younger man bristled. "Don't 'oh, Angelo' me. You don't have the right."

"Of course I do, son."

The gun swung around to point at Duncan. "Don't say that."

"Why not? It's the truth."

Rick felt the metaphorical lightbulb blazing into life over his head. Unable to keep his mouth shut he said, "You slept with Ariadne."

Duncan waved a hand, but his mouth curved. "You're as bad as Maggie."

Angelo's ears perked up. "Maggie? Maggie Maguire?"

"You do not touch her." Duncan's change of expression was sudden and marked. "She even gets a splinter and I'll be coming to you."

"You're threatening _me_?"

"It's not a threat, Angelo."

The stand-off could have developed into something a lot more deadly, but Rick broke the silence. "Look, if you want to discuss this, we can always come back later."

James, who despite his experiences as a teenager in a not exactly salubrious area of the city (or perhaps because of them), had kept quiet, not wanting to be the one to make things worse than they already were, but couldn't help being surprised at the author's apparent lack of fear. James himself was a big man, and a lot of people looked at him and saw someone who could take care of himself, which was true for the most part, but these men had guns, and anyone who said that didn't scare them was either insane or a liar. So Rick was just as scared as he was, and still managed to come out with a quip. Maybe he was beginning to detect what Maggie saw in the author.

Angelo, though, didn't appreciate the humour. "You're really starting to annoy me."

"Starting?" Kate murmured. "Just give him a while. You can't believe how annoying he can be."

"You don't have that long."

The atmosphere chilled, and it wasn't just the sun going down. Things had changed. It wasn't anything specific, not over and above the threatening behaviour Angelo had already exhibited, but something was different. Maybe the shadows outside the storage area had grown thicker and darker, or maybe it was a sudden lull in the usually continuous traffic noise of the city all around them, but lifetimes could now be counted in seconds.

Rick cleared his throat before swallowing hard, then said, "Kate, if we're about to die I have to tell you something."

She almost rolled her eyes. "Shut up."

"No, really, I –"

"We're not going to die."

Angelo laughed unpleasantly. "She doesn't want to know," he said. "You're obviously not her type."

Rick bristled. This man didn't know Kate's type, had no idea of the kind of person she went for, and he wasn't about to let –

Kate broke into his thoughts. "If you kill a cop ... two cops ... the entire force won't stop until they've hunted you down. And that's without even beginning to worry about what Castle's fans will do to you if they catch you."

"They have no idea who I am."

"Want to bet on that?"

Angelo smiled, putting Rick in mind of a shark seeing a tasty morsel kicking just below the surface. In fact, he was half-surprised not to hear a heavy bass beat in the background. "I'll take that bet. And I wager your lives." The mobster waved his gun a little. "There's no evidence I'm involved at all. And there are fifty people who will testify I wasn't here anyway."

"My boss knows all about you."

"I don't think so." Angelo glanced down at his tie pin and straightened it fractionally, secure that his men had the others covered. "I have ears, and eyes. People who let me know if my name comes up, and it hasn't." He looked back at her. "Besides, if it had you'd have been round at my house with a warrant before I could even dial for my lawyer."

"There are others," James blurted, then wished he hadn't.

"Oh, yes. Your girlfriend." Angelo glanced towards the gunman in the leather jacket. "Perhaps I'll send Nash around to see her. He likes pretty girls. And he loves his knife."

Rick and James both took a step forward, but it was Duncan who spoke. "No."

Ryan, still on the deck and pretending to be too groggy to do anything, readied himself, and he knew Beckett was doing the same.

"You don't get to tell me what to do!" Angelo was furious, and that was turning to bluster.

Duncan sighed heavily. "Son, you won't make old bones if you go around killing people all the time."

"That's where you're wrong. If you kill them they don't come back and kill you. And I told you, don't call me _son_."

"No matter how often you say it, doesn't make it not true."

Angelo's face suffused with blood. "My father should have killed you when he found out."

"You mean when your uncle Gianni told him?" Duncan almost sneered, his voice firmer, less of the soft Irish brogue and much more of the New York mobster in it. "Vito was grateful, and you know it. He was never going to give the old man a grandson, and I could." A cruel smile tilted his lips. "You _and_ your sisters."

The blood drained away to be replaced by cold white anger. "Well, I'm going to rectify that mistake right now." He waved the gun. "Get over there with your friends."

"Angelo ..."

"No! Not anymore. Now you do what _I_ say."

Duncan stared at him, then moved slowly to stand next to James, ignoring the cowering figure of the storage area supervisor still hunkered down on the dirt behind them. "And the treasure?" he asked, glancing into the dark container.

"Mine," Angelo said, smiling again.

"You've got the receipts?" Rick asked before he could stop himself, and Angelo's gun swung back towards him

"Oh, yes," the heir to the Viducci family said. "You first." His finger tightened on the trigger.

His mother had always warned him that his smart mouth would get him into trouble, and Rick expected to have his life flash before his eyes, quite prepared to enjoy at least some of it before being blasted into oblivion, but all he could see was Kate out of the corner of his eye starting to move, to protect him, and he tried to step back, away from her. She wasn't going to die over him, not if he could help it.

"No!" Duncan swung his cane up, hitting Angelo under his wrist and pushing the gun skywards. The sound of the weapon firing was shockingly loud, ringing through the metal containers and setting their teeth on edge, but it was muted compared to the roar that came from Angelo himself, pulling the gun down and around to aim at Duncan.

Another gunshot, this time from further away, and Angelo froze. His mouth opened, jaw flapping like a landed fish trying to gulp in water, but no sound emerged. Only blood, dripping down his chin and onto his red silk tie. He fell forwards onto the compacted earth, and didn't move.

The other gunmen were in a moment's shock at the shooting of their boss, and Ryan took advantage of the distraction to kick his legs around, taking the feet out from under Nash, the gunman in the leather jacket, so he fell forwards, dropping his weapon as he tried to save himself.

Ryan was on him in an instant, the gun out of reach but using his wiry strength to hold the man down.

All guns swung towards the fighting pair, and for a moment it seemed the Irish cop was going to end up full of holes, but suddenly the other weapon again cracked the air from near the gate, the bullet ricocheting from the metal container and whining off into the darkness.

The bad guys scattered, apart from the one Ryan was wrestling on the ground, running for cover among the containers.

Kate grabbed her own gun from the dirt and ducked back into the relative shelter of the open storage container. "You okay?" she asked Rick and James as the other men joined her.

"Peachy," the curator said. "It's not like I haven't been shot at before."

Rick raised an eyebrow. "Have you been holding out on us?" he asked. "And does Maggie know?"

Kate stared at them, then looked out of the container just as a big man ran towards them, ducking low, recognised by both Rick and James as Garvey, Duncan's driver. Kate wasn't so informed, and her gun swung around to take aim.

"No!" Duncan said quickly. "He's on our side!"

_Our _side? Kate glared at him, but didn't squeeze the trigger, instead concentrating on checking to make sure the bad guys weren't about to make an attack on the container. As useful as it was as cover, she hated being backed into a corner like this.

Suddenly Garvey faltered, just as a shot rang out, and slipped to the dirt.

Duncan glared at Kate, but she shook her head. "Not me," she said.

"No." The old man looked towards the still form of Angelo Viducci. "I need to ..."

She put her hand on his arm. "No. No, you don't."

"He's my son."

"No."

He didn't respond, just pulled his arm free and stepped out into the light, going to his son and slowly kneeling down next to him. Kate expected to hear a volley of gunfire, see the old man dance as he was hit, but there was nothing. She eased her head out from cover, then ducked back as a bullet whipcracked over her head, burying itself somewhere in the container.

Duncan wasn't considered a threat, Kate realised, only they weren't leaving. Angelo might be bleeding out onto the dirt, but his pals were determined to take them all out, silence them for what they knew. "Stay here," she murmured, aiming quickly and firing at the main light in front of them. It shattered, showering the yard with hot shards of glass.

Ryan felt one burn his cheek, but stayed low, holding the other man down by sheer force of will.

In the now darker shadows Kate slipped out of the container, even as Rick went to call her back.

_No,_ he told himself. _This is what she does. What she's good at._ _Just don't come back with any holes, Kate Beckett_, he prayed, eyeing the gun Nash had dropped, just a pace too far outside for comfort.

"Shouldn't we get out of here?" James asked. "I don't like feeling like a sitting target."

"And you think I do?"

"We have to do something. Help."

"How?"

James nodded towards the gun. "I can get that."

"You're big, but you're not very bright," Rick said quickly. "Do you really think they won't shoot at us?"

"I don't care."

"I do." He went on as the sporadic sound of gunfire echoed through the metal containers, "Maggie would never forgive me if you came back wounded."

James smiled tightly. "This isn't about Maggie. It's about me. And I can't just sit." He stood up. "Coming?"

Rick glared at him but got to his feet. "If I get killed I'm coming back to haunt you."

"Bedsheets and chains?"

"At least."

"I'll look forward to it." Hunkering down, James ran outside.

"The gun," Ryan said, the squirming man under him trying to throw him off. "Give me the gun."

James nodded, kicking the firearm towards the cop before heading towards Garvey who was rolling on the dirt and groaning.

Ryan released one hand and snatched it up, pressing it hard against Nash's neck. "One more move and you won't need to buy a hat," he snapped.

Nash's eyes widened but he lay still.

Rick had hurried to Duncan, who was cradling Angelo's head in his lap. "Is he ..."

Duncan nodded. "He's gone."

Going down onto his heels, Rick said quietly, "He was going to kill us."

"I know. But he was still my son."

There wasn't anything else to say. Nothing Rick could come up with was going to help, make things any easier, and even serial killers had mothers who loved them.

Keeping as low as he could he scuttled over to James, who had Garvey's shirt bunched in his hands, pressing down hard. "James?"

"It's bad," the big man said. "We need an ambulance."

Rick felt for his cellphone but it was missing. It must have fallen from his pocket at some point, perhaps in Kate's car, or the storage container ... He looked around, searching the ground, but something else caught his attention. A man, framed for a moment in the light from the supervisor's office before vanishing into the shadows. Rick couldn't tell age or weight, but he was crystal clear on the weapon in his hand.

"Shit," Rick breathed. Another gunman, one Kate didn't know about. And in his dark clothes he was going to be difficult to see until it was too late.

"What?" James asked.

"I have to go and help." He knew he was contradicting his previous statement, and added, "There's another one."

James stared at him for a moment, then nodded, keeping pressure on the wound, his hands sticky with blood. "Go," he said.

"Rick." It was Duncan. "Here. You might need this." He held out his cane.

Feeling confused Rick took it, then understood. The weight was wrong for a stick, and it was only a matter of holding the body and twisting the head, and the high tensile steel sword slipped smoothly from its casing. He gripped it tightly. The pen might be mightier than the sword, but was a sword any good against a gun? He'd have to risk it.

With just a single glance at both Duncan and James, Rick took off to help his partner.


	23. Chapter 23

_It's not the same, _Rick kept telling himself. _This is not the same as acting out Robin Hood in the loft with Alexis. Especially since she tends to win. Or even duelling with light sabers, and the Force isn't going to stop a bullet. Not even if I believe really, really hard. _Maybe this was the stupidest thing he'd ever done, although there were a good many other contenders for that title. At least with the adrenalin roaring through his system, he was too hyped to feel the terror banging on his subconscious.

Padding his way through the dark between the containers, his ears straining to hear even the most smallest of noises over and above the sporadic sound of gunfire, he was almost on the first gunman before he knew it. Not the man in black, but the one in the suit, peering around the corner, his back to him.

Rick lifted the sword then paused.

As much as this man intended to kill his friends, and himself, he was a decent man, and he couldn't stab the killer in the back. It would make him as bad, and no matter how much he tried he knew he wasn't going to be able to make himself do it. Instead he looked around.

Ah. That would do nicely.

A moment later the bad guy – who had been concentrating far too hard on being the hunter and nowhere near enough on the possibility of being the hunted – lay on the dirt, his suit crumpled and dusty. Rick dropped the length of two by four and quickly checked for a pulse. Good. He hadn't hit him too hard, hadn't accidentally sent him off into the sweet bye and bye. Still, he didn't want him coming back to haunt him, so Rick stripped the tie from around the guy's neck, using it to swiftly secure his hands behind his back.

Hmmn. Not quite enough. It might be hard, but he could still get up, maybe ...

Undoing the man's belt, Rick wrapped it around his ankles a couple of times then looped it through the gunman's bound hands before rebuckling it. A somewhat grubby handkerchief went into the mouth to stop possible warning shouts, and Rick stood back, satisfied. Hog-tied. Barely pausing to enjoy the non-existent applause from the rodeo crowd, he picked up the sword and carried on.

* * *

Kate sighted along her gun and checked the corner. So far she hadn't even come close to finding any of the gunmen, although there had been a couple of shots in her direction, ricocheting away into the darkness. The storage yard was obviously larger than she had given it credit, and there was the distinct possibility she could spend the rest of her life in here and not find anyone.

No reason to give up, though. Stepping forwards, her knees slightly flexed to keep her balance, she continued the search.

* * *

"Lie still." Ryan wasn't sure how much longer Nash was going to take the hint of a gun in the back of his neck, and so far there was no sign of the back-up they so sincerely needed. "How is he?" he called to James.

"Still alive," the curator said, his hands pressed against the wound in Garvey's chest. "It won't stop bleeding, though."

"Might have clipped an artery."

"Maybe." James glanced at Duncan, but the old man hadn't moved, appearing almost catatonic as he cradled Angelo's body. "Looks like we're on our own."

"No, you're not."

Ryan whipped his head around towards the entrance to the yard, but would never admit the intense feeling of relief that swept through him at the sight of his partner stepping quietly through the gates. "Esposito."

"Hey, bro."

"What took you so long?"

"Stopped for a Danish on the way."

"I hope you brought me one too."

"Nah, they're not good for you. That girlfriend of yours'll tell you off for getting fat."

"Jenny wouldn't do that."

"Eat too many pastries and she will." All during the banter Esposito had been checking out the supervisor's office and nearby containers, his stance about as professional as a cop could get. "Any of ours hurt?"

"No," Ryan admitted. "Except him." He nodded towards Garvey and shrugged at the same time.

"Ambulance and back-up are on their way," Esposito promised. "Beckett and Castle?"

"In there." Ryan jerked his head towards the stacks. "After three more bad guys."

Despite the idea of Castle putting himself in harm's way, and probably without his WRITER vest too, Esposito nodded. "You gonna be okay?"

"Fine. I could do with a pair of cuffs, though," Ryan added as, despite the gun, Nash tried to buck him off yet again.

"Where are yours?"

"No idea."

"They'll make you pay for a replacement."

"Fine." Ryan dug his elbow in the man's back. "Just lend me yours for now." To Nash he said, "Lie still or I'll shoot you, or at least break something."

Esposito grinned and tossed his partner his handcuffs before slipping into the darkness between the containers.

* * *

This was not good. This was so not good. For all his listening and care, Rick had turned a corner and come face to face with the gunman in the turtleneck. Swallowing hard, he lifted the sword and said, "_En garde_."

"Seriously?" Turtleneck was almost as surprised. "Are you stupid or something?"

"It's been suggested." Rick glanced down at the gun, then his eyes skittered away from almost certain death. "I don't suppose you'd like a personally signed copy of my latest book, would you?" he asked. "As a bribe?"

Turtleneck shook his head. "I don't read books. Can't see the point."

Under his breath Rick murmured to himself, "Figures." Aloud, though, he went on, "How about money? I'm rich. Whatever you want, just to change sides. After all, your boss is dead."

"I couldn't do that," Turtleneck said. "Company loyalty." He raised the gun a little higher. "Turn around."

"Look, I can –"

"Turn around." This time it was an order, and he had to comply. "Now say goodbye."

Yet again Rick expected to see his life flash before his eyes, but there was nothing. He was going to complain, he told himself. When he reached the pearly gates, he was going to ask to see the manager and demand to know why he hadn't had the privilege of viewing at least the highlights, although considering what some of those had been, maybe assuming he was heading _up_ could be construed as wishful thinking ...

Time stretched, his heartbeat seeming to slow right down until he could almost count the individual beats amongst the bongo-playing going on in his chest, although the quiet voice in his ear made them peak wildly again.

"A sword?"

He turned, never more happy to see her. "Kate!"

She was glaring at him, and beyond her he could make out Turtleneck lying on the ground, out and cuffed. "You came in here with a sword?"

Something about her expression suggested she was angry with him, he could tell. "Technically." He went on quickly, "But I took out one of the bad guys. Back there." He gestured to the way he thought he'd come.

"Are you totally insane?"

"No, but I –"

"Where did you get it from?"

"Duncan. It's a sword stick. But Kate –"

She wasn't going to let him finish. "Something else to charge him with, carrying a concealed weapon. At least James didn't follow you in, did he?"

"No, but –"

"He's got more sense. Coming in here at all was stupid enough, but with a sword? Who do you think you are, Errol Flynn? Sometimes I think –"

He grabbed her by the arms. "Kate! There's another one!"

"Another what?"

"Another gunman. In here. I think he was the driver."

She immediately tensed again. "Shit." Wriggling free from his grip she took a step backwards, but it was too late.

His eyes widened, and she didn't have to be a psychic to know what he'd seen over her shoulder. She turned slowly.

The man in black was smiling at them, but there was no humour in it. He wasn't about to say anything, just tightened his finger on the trigger.

Without thinking, without even a conscious intercession from his brain at all, Rick took hold of Kate and swung her around, putting his body between her and the gunman, pressing her back into the container's wall.

A shot rang out, and he waited for the pain, the inability to breathe, the ...

"Castle ..." Kate began.

He stared into her eyes, wondering how they could be sparkling like that in this gloom. Maybe she was crying for him, for all the time they'd wasted. He could feel her body under his, through his clothes, and realised their panting was becoming synchronised and the air from her lungs was caressing his face.

He had to speak, to say something, anything to keep her like this, to make this moment last. "Kate, I –"

"Yo. You guys okay?"

Kate pushed him away, quickly ducking under his arm and moving into the clear space. "Fine," she said to Esposito. "What took you so long?"

"Traffic." The cop had his gun still trained on the man on the ground, but he wasn't going anywhere, at least from the spreading pool of dark liquid under him.

"Was that you?" Rick asked, patting himself down and looking for bullet holes.

Esposito nodded. "It looked like you needed a hand."

"Thanks," Kate said.

"Yes. Thank you," Rick agreed.

"Cavalry's coming," Esposito added.

"Can you keep an eye on these two?" Kate asked.

Esposito nodded. "Go."

Kate jogged through the containers, Rick at her heels, and in no time at all had gained the open front space. Ryan was standing over Nash, gun aimed squarely at his head, and James was still stopping Garvey bleeding to death. The storage supervisor looked like he was never going to come out of the container ever again, but Angelo's body lay alone.

"Where's Monaghan?" Kate demanded.

"No idea," Ryan admitted. "I sort of had my hands full."

She turned to James, glaring at him. "Well?"

"Gone," the curator said.

"I can see that. Where?"

"He didn't stop to tell me." James returned her stare. "Are the medics on their way?" he asked. "Only my arms are getting tired."

The thin sound of a siren slipped around the corner. "They're on their way," Kate promised, despite herself impressed by his coolness. Considering the attraction most New Yorkers felt towards scenes of crime, turning up to gawp and Tweet, the majority of them would never go the Good Samaritan route, and would probably be puking by now. Still ... "Were you a soldier?" she asked, the question seeming important and irrelevant at the same time now the action was over.

"Once upon a long time ago," James admitted. "How did you –"

"You said medic. I've heard it before from ex-servicemen."

"Ah. I'll have to watch that."

She chuckled, then turned to Rick. He was looking down at Angelo's corpse.

"Duncan's done a runner," she said quietly.

"At his age it's probably more of a walk."

"I'll get the boys to put out an APB."

He lifted his head to look at her. "Do we have to?"

"Castle, he's involved."

"I know, but –"

"But nothing." She ignored the pleading in his eyes. "The statute of limitations might have run out on the original robbery, but we've got four bodies to take into account."

"He didn't kill anyone," Rick insisted.

"No?"

Rick gazed at her, trying to find a chink in her armour, but it was perfect. She was right, too. Duncan was at least an accessory, and more than likely an active participant, despite his age. He sighed and looked back down at Angelo. "I guess."

"And I hope you're not feeling sorry for _him_ too," she added, nodding down at the body.

"Angelo?" He shook his head. "Couldn't happen to a nicer guy."

The ambulance peeled into the lot, followed by two police cars. The black and whites disgorged uniformed officers, and Kate hurried over to direct them.

James waited until the EMTs had taken over, tearing packs of gauze open to pack the wound in Garvey's chest, then he stood up, stoically ignoring the blood on his hands. "You do realise Duncan probably killed Gianni," he said quietly, his voice barely more than a murmur.

Rick blew through his lips. "It crossed my mind. Since it looks like he was involved in the original theft, too."

"I agree."

"You do?"

"I've been thinking about it."

"Is that safe?"

"I had nothing better to do while I waited." He paused a moment, then wiped his hands down his already soiled coat. "I was ... remembering."

"Remembering what?"

"The stories my grandfather used to tell."

Rick smiled. "He was a wise guy?"

James shrugged. "Mildly intelligent."

Rick couldn't help the laugh that rolled in his chest, tucking that little expression away for future use by Jameson Rook. "And what did he tell you?"

"Stories. Of the good old days. About some of the lower ranking families and their ... associates."

"Like Duncan."

"I recall Grandad talking about him."

"That's why you recognised his name."

James grinned. "I gather I didn't hide it that well."

"I'm a writer. I noticed. But I wouldn't tell Beckett, if I were you."

"You think she might arrest me?"

"For withholding potential evidence? In a heartbeat."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

Rick smiled wider. "Does Maggie know about your life of crime?"

"Not yet. But we do have to have something to talk about during the long evenings in the future."

He didn't want to think about that, so asked, "And Duncan?"

"Known to get his hands dirty." James glanced down at his own. "Or bloody."

Rick nodded. "He wasn't always an old man."

"He carried a swordstick," James pointed out. "And Garvey was armed."

"Yes."

For a moment the two men gazed at each other, a lot more going on between them than just silence, terminated only when the cell phone in James' pocket went off, warbling something suitably classical. Removing it he looked at the screen. "Maggie," he explained, smiling. "She's probably wondering where I am."

"You'd better let her know you're still alive."

"So are you."

"I'd be glad if you'd mention that fact."

"Sure." James went to thumb the answer button, but Rick stopped him.

"Just ... be good to her," the author said.

"I intend to be."

"Because if I hear otherwise ... well, let's just say, I know people."

James smiled. "So do I."

* * *

Esposito followed the ambulance taking Ryan and Garvey to the hospital (the detective protesting all of the way before Kate ordered him to shut up and take his medicine like a man before she called Jenny and dobbed him in), while one of the black and whites carried Nash and the gunman in the suit to Central Booking. A second ambulance had been called to convey the man in black and the bad guy Kate had dealt with to the Emergency Room, but nobody cared much about them.

Lanie turned up with the morgue-mobile and loaded Angelo's body in the back.

"Something you want to tell me?" she asked Kate quietly, watching Rick watching her.

"Later," Kate promised her. "Over a very large glass of red wine."

"I'm going to hold you to that, girl," Lanie said, sliding into the front seat.

Kate herself drove back to the precinct, Rick at her side despite her suggestions that he go home. After updating Montgomery on the events of the evening, she sat down in her chair and rubbed her hands through her hair.

"Maybe you should be the one going home," Rick said, perching on the corner of the desk.

"I can't. Paperwork."

"Won't it wait until tomorrow?"

"You know it won't. Besides, the case isn't over yet." She shook herself, sitting up straighter and picking up her messages.

"You mean Duncan."

"He's a wanted man, Castle."

"I get that."

"And still in the wind." She waved one of the slips. "Apparently there's no sign of him at his apartment or any of his restaurants."

Rick moved round to lower himself into his own chair. "Kate, Duncan's probably been planning this for the last fifty years. He'll have bank accounts in names we can't even imagine, maybe a place in the Hamptons to hide in, even somewhere back in Ireland to escape to."

She gazed at him. "Is that your writer's imagination working?"

"Actually I thought I was being sincere." He shook his head. "With his contacts we'll probably never seen him again."

"If Vito Viducci doesn't get to him first."

"There is that."

"And if he does we probably won't find the pieces anyway."

He stared in mock disbelief. "Kate, I didn't know you had it in you."

She chuckled. "I must be more tired than I thought."

"Or my influence."

"Could be."

They gazed into each other's eyes for a long moment, and Rick was about to thank her for saving his life – again – when someone spoke.

"Oh, you _are_ here." Their concentration broken, both turned towards the bullpen entrance. It was Brian, one of the Department's top techs. He was panting slightly.

Rick, internally cursing in as many languages as he could remember, asked, "Did you just run up the stairs?"

"Exercise," Brian explained. "Besides, you said this was important, and I didn't want to miss you." He waved a buff folder. "I've got those results you wanted."

"Results?" Kate took the proffered file.

"On the envelope and USB stick."

_Maggie_. It was like a lightbulb going on over Rick's head. Of course. Maggie's plagiarism problem. Howard Harrison's accusation. How could he have forgotten that? Kate had handed over the so-called proof to the experts, asking them to find out what they could, and it looked like Brian had come up with something. Rick shifted forwards in his seat. "Well? Kate?"

She quickly scanned the contents then smiled and handed the file over. "See for yourself."

His eyes flicked across the neat printing, having to go back and reread a second and third time before it finally sank in. "You're sure?" he asked, glancing up at Brian.

The tech was grinning. "Positive. The envelope was easy – anyone could have done that. Steam works well on one of those, so long as it's the old-fashioned gummed type. Just because it dries doesn't mean it loses its adhesive qualities – you just need to make sure you don't make it too wet or the paper crinkles."

"Really? I thought that was an old wives' tale," Kate said. "Or a writer's-blocked novelist's trick." For some reason she looked at Rick.

"Hey, I only use it the once," he protested. "And it was meant to be an homage." He emphasised the French accent he put on with his fingers, drawing them from his mouth towards her.

"Yes, to the last century."

He smiled then turned back to Brian. "So ... what, he sent himself something and reused the envelope once he'd read the book? It doesn't give him much time."

"Ah." Brian couldn't have looked much smugger. "I know someone at MacKinnon, and –"

"Wait a minute," Rick interrupted. "I don't think we said anything about MacKinnon – at least I didn't." He glanced at Kate.

"Not me," she confirmed.

"Oh, please." Brian didn't quite scoff, but nearly. "I read. And I bought _Tears at Midnight_ for my Kindle the day it came out. Finished it that night." He shook his head. "Damn good book. So give me a little credit."

"I'll tell Maggie Maguire you enjoyed it," Rick said, wondering if his life could get any stranger.

"Thanks. Anyway, as soon as I realised some of it was the same, I spoke to my friend and ... well, let's just say that I persuaded him to tell me that they lost a copy of the printed manuscript almost two months ago."

"Lost?"

"That's how _he_ put it."

Kate's eyebrows raised a notch and her eyes met Rick's. "You mean stolen?"

The author shrugged. "It happens, but no publishing house is going to admit it. Ever." He looked back at Brian. "And the stick? I mean, I'd have thought that was the most difficult to fake."

"Well, I was suspicious when I saw the access log. It's not easy to get to, but once I'd got down into the ..." Brian stopped, knowing he was about to start spouting technicalese, something he'd been told off about before. "Basically the file's only been accessed on one machine, and nowadays that's unusual. Most people have a computer, a laptop, maybe a netbook, even a phone that will ..." Rick was starting to fidget. "Anyway, someone who knew what they were doing altered the system time, and ... well, there's more, but I'm one hundred percent sure that the file wasn't created when they said it was."

"Are you willing to testify to that?" Kate asked.

"Sure. Is it likely to go that far?"

"I doubt it. Not with your sterling work." She smiled for him.

He blushed. "Well, I was glad to help. And if Ms Maguire wants to sign a copy of her book for me, I'd be more than happy to accept." Something beeped in his pocket, and Brian jerked slightly. "Oops. Got to go. Got something on the boil that I need to see to." He grinned as he turned on his heel and jogged out of the room.

"He makes me feel old," Kate murmured. "And exhausted."

"So with a little steam and malice aforethought ..." Rick exhaled, feeling a knot unravel inside him. He was never going to admit it to Maggie, but he'd been afraid they weren't going to be able to prove anything, that she'd have to live with the stain hanging over her for the rest of her life. Instead ...

Kate watched his face, reading him like one of his books, and understanding him more than he knew. "Go," she said, waving her hands at him. "Give her the good news."

"Yes." He nodded. "Yes, I'd like that." He stood up and shrugged into his overcoat. "Thanks, Kate," he said softly.

"You're welcome."


	24. Chapter 24

Ryan had been right – or rather, his girlfriend Jenny was. It might have taken a week, but it had warmed up, enough that, out of the wind in the lee of a large granite memorial, it was almost pleasant.

Rick turned his face to the sun, his eyes half-closed, smiling with satisfaction.

"Should you be enjoying yourself?" Kate asked, just the corner of her mouth twitching. "This is a funeral after all."

"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy."

"Just because he wanted to shoot us and leave us to rot ..."

He dropped his head to look at her under his eyebrows. "And thank you for that lovely mental image."

"It's what I do." She turned back to the gathering a distance away as Angelo Viducci's mortal remains were lowered into the ground. "They look like a flock of crows," she commented, noting the multitude of black garments fluttering in the wind.

"A murder."

She glanced sharply at him. "What?"

"A murder of crows, not a flock."

"Really."

"Mmn."

"Very appropriate."

"Or a storytelling."

She laughed lightly. "Even more so."

They watched as a large black car drew up a distance away, right behind the hearses on the narrow road.

"There are some great collective nouns," Rick went on. "A prickle of hedgehogs. An implausibility of gnus. A paddling of ducks."

"Now you're making those up."

"No, honestly."

A man had climbed from the driver's side, tall and muscular looking, even from where they stood. Oddly familiar, too. He walked around to the back door, opening it.

"Ah." Kate stood straighter, her hand hovering close to her gun at her hip.

"You're not going to shoot him," Rick said urgently, touching her arm. "Duncan's not a threat."

"No?"

The white-haired Irishman had straightened, both hands on his cane, then stepped aside to let a woman exit.

"Or Maggie."

The woman in question put her hand on Duncan's arm, said something they couldn't hear, then nodded at James before walking towards them. Her black leather coat swung around her knees, and Rick couldn't help but make a mental note about how appropriate she looked in this setting. If he ignored her spiky hair and rather lovely green eyes, although her still pale complexion fitted in well.

"Mags." He smiled at her.

"Hey."

"How are you feeling?"

"Getting better, thanks. And you asked me yesterday."

"Yes, well that was before you turned up with Duncan," he pointed out. "And they never execute an ill woman."

"Is someone planning on executing me?" she asked, her gaze travelling to Kate.

"It's possible," the detective said. "What's going on?"

"He's giving himself up."

"It's been a week. I don't call that giving himself up."

Maggie glanced over her shoulder towards where Duncan was gazing at the funeral party. "I think he wanted to talk to Ariadne first."

"You mean apologise?"

"Something like that."

A grey-haired woman, supported by a bald man and four black-clad women, was staring at him, and as they watched she lifted a hand for just a moment. Duncan did the same, then turned deliberately away and walked somewhat stiffly towards the others.

Kate's fingers lingered on her handcuffs, then looked up surprised when Rick pushed her hand gently down. "I doubt he's going to run," he said softly.

She glared at him, then shrugged. "If he does I'm arresting you as an accessory."

"Fine."

Duncan stopped a few paces from them. "Detective Beckett. Rick."

"You couldn't come into the precinct?" Kate asked.

The old man glanced towards the funeral. "He was my son. I might not have liked him very much, but I needed to be here. To say goodbye." His Irish accent was almost entirely gone now, replaced by the man who owned some of New York's favourite restaurants. Duncan Monaghan was back in control.

Kate turned her gaze on Maggie, but the author held up her hands. "Hey, don't look at me. He just turned up at James' front door an hour ago. I had no idea he was still even in the city."

"She was very clear," Duncan added. "She said she was going to call 911 if I didn't turn myself in right now."

"I knew you'd be here," Maggie went on to Rick. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist."

"Seeing a Mob funeral? Of course not." He smiled at her.

"Anyway," Duncan said, "here I am." He held out his hands. "Would you like to cuff me?"

"Are you going to run?" Kate asked in turn.

"No."

"Then not today. But I am going to advise you of your rights."

He laughed, just a light chuckle. "Detective, I've heard them all too often, and ... don't worry. I don't intend saying a thing to incriminate myself." He leaned forward. "And Angelo was right. You don't really have any proof."

"I've got four men who tried to kill us."

"And I wasn't one of them." His Irish eyes glittered. "And not one of _them_ is going to implicate me. But good luck anyway."

From the look on Kate's face Rick was positive she was regretting not just handcuffing Duncan and throwing away the key, so he spoke quickly. "I'd have thought you'd have been out of the country by now."

Duncan shrugged, something catching the light just inside his overcoat. "I considered it. But I'm an old man, and to spend my remaining years looking over my shoulder ... it's not worth it."

"An innocent man wouldn't need to worry about that," Kate pointed out.

"Ah, but who is truly innocent in this world of ours?" He smiled at her. "Even you, Detective?"

Maggie shook her head. "Stop it. Both of you."

"Whatever you say, _a chailin mo chroi._" This time none of them were in any doubt about Duncan's affection for her. He turned back to Kate. "Can I have a minute alone with Rick?" he asked. "I promise I'm not going to run."

Kate gazed at him, calculating the likelihood of him being anything even close to honest, but obviously decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Just as long as it takes me to arrange Ryan and Esposito to get here to pick you up."

"That should be long enough."

"Okay." She turned on her high heel and strode towards the Daimler and James, still waiting patiently.

"You too, my dear," Duncan said to Maggie. "There are a couple of things I'd be too ashamed for you to hear."

"Uncle Duncan –"

"Trust me."

She gazed into his eyes, seeing only sincerity, then nodded. "I'm not going far, though," she warned.

"Go and talk to James," Duncan advised. "He's looking lonely."

"Hmmn." She raised an eyebrow at him but walked slowly away.

"She's a darling girl," Duncan said quietly.

"That she is," Rick agreed. "Nice tie pin, by the way," he added, nodding down slightly.

Duncan fingered the diamond. "Yes."

"Looks familiar." The last time he'd seen it the pin was resting in red silk on Angelo Viducci's chest.

"I ... repatriated it."

"Really."

"It was a ring," Duncan explained, his eyes once more drawn to the funeral. "I gave it to Ariadne when I was young and foolish. She had it altered and passed it to Angelo."

"You didn't mind?"

"He was my son. Even if not in name."

"He was a villain."

"Ah, but aren't we all?"

"Speak for yourself."

"I just wanted it back. To remember ... better times." Duncan smiled. "I imagine you've got some questions. And as I said, I won't be answering any once I'm technically arrested."

He was right, Rick realised. He did have a lot of questions, most of which he probably didn't really want the answers to, not if he were honest. But there was one ... "The job. Penn Station. You were involved."

Duncan nodded. "I was. And the truth is, it was always an inside job. Vito's idea, he decided on the when, where and what. He didn't like the way he was being treated like cattle any more than Ariadne did."

"How did you get involved?"

"I had contacts, seeing as I was lower down the food chain. And Vito had found out about me and Ariadne."

"Who told him? Was it Gianni?"

Duncan smiled. "You're not as stupid as I once took you for, Richard. Yes, it was Gianni. He saw us one night in my car on Lover's Point. And we weren't just admiring the view."

"Let me guess. You decided, for betraying you, he was going to sleep with the fishes?"

"You know, I hate that phrase. He doesn't sleep – when a man is dead, he's dead."

"And you made it happen for Gianni."

"It was going to be an accident. He was going to have ... _fallen_ off the barge. We had no idea there was going to be a storm that night."

Rick could see it in his mind's eye ... the dead of night, clouds building up over the darkened city, trucks being loaded onto barges, and Duncan heading back to speak to Gianni. Maybe he'd leaned in the open window, or perhaps he sat next to him, making nice before pulling out a knife and ...

"What were you going to do?" he asked quietly. "Stop in the middle of the river and toss him overboard?"

"Something like that. Pull the two barges together and dump his body. I even had some concrete blocks ready to tie him to on the barge already."

This old man, his silver hair shining in the sunlight, was talking quite normally about killing a man, of thrusting a blade so far into his throat that it marked the bones of his spine ... Rick held back the grimace. "So no sign of foul play ... well, no more than was expected, except the storm came along and you lost some of the treasure."

"Yes that was awkward," Duncan agreed. "And no way of finding it later." He gave a soft bark of laughter. "You have no idea what it was like, riding the barge in front. One minute I was chucking my guts up over the side, praying I wasn't going to drown, and the next I looked behind us and there was nothing. Not a sign. It was just ... gone."

"With Gianni's body."

"Yes."

There was a long pause, only the hum of the city and birdsong interrupting the silence.

"Vito wouldn't be happy," Rick said finally, looking towards the family still standing at the graveside. "If he found out. You killing his brother like that."

Duncan eyed him carefully. "Who do you think ordered the hit?"

Rick's jaw dropped, and he could swear he felt gravel under his chin. "Vito ..."

"Gianni was a thug, Rick. Even more so than Angelo. And Vito thought he was talking to the Feds." Duncan shrugged. "He'd been pulled over with something in the trunk of his car, but they let him walk. Vito was convinced he was turning state's evidence in exchange for immunity and a new life. Or worse, about to tell old man Viducci about the plans." He chuckled again. "I earned my money that night."

"So it wasn't just Ariadne."

"No." The old man sighed. "I wish I could say it was, that it was one of those crimes of passion, but ... Vito was angry about our affair, but he ... well, with his proclivities he was never going to father a kid, so he looked the other way."

"How many others?" Rick asked, seeing Kate turning to walk back towards them. "How many others did you kill?"

Duncan smiled, looking like the benevolent uncle he had probably never been. "Do you really want to know?"

Rick considered, then shook his head. Using his imagination was one thing, but to be told, in that unassuming, ordinary way about the casual killing of who knew how many ... "No. Not really."

"Good answer," Duncan said approvingly.

Kate strode up the slight incline, Maggie hovering at her back. "They'll be here in a few minutes."

"That's good." Duncan stretched his back. "These old bones of mine don't appreciate standing around for too long."

"There's a seat just over there," Maggie pointed out.

"That would be nice." He looked at Kate. "Unless you think I'm going to make a break for freedom."

"Don't worry. I'll be right beside you."

He laughed. "Now how can I refuse an offer from two such lovely ladies?"

Rick watched them walk slowly towards the stone bench, then idled his way to the limo. "Hey."

James nodded. "Hey."

"Things going okay?"

"Fine."

"The ... uh ... treasure?"

James shrugged faintly. "Some paintings need a little restoration, but the original thieves did a better job than anyone could have hoped. Most of them were watertight."

"And the Rokeby Medusa?"

"Missing."

"What?"

"It wasn't in the inventory." James looked annoyed. "It must still be out there, somewhere."

Rick had a sudden mental picture of another locker somewhere, stacked ten deep with pictures, statues by the dozen, jewellery picking up the light, and all of them hidden behind locks and chains and men with guns. "What about the rest of it?" he asked. "Any original owners?"

"Difficult to tell, at least in some cases. The works were stolen over decades, hundreds of years in at least one, so to decide who has the ultimate claim ..."

"So what do you do?"

"Publicise." James smiled at the look on Rick's face. "We have an exhibition, as soon as the police say we can. All the pieces. And wait for the lawyers to fight it out."

"Sounds like fun."

"It should be. I can't wait."

"Let me know when it opens – I'll be there."

"Of course."

"Great."

Someone laughed, and they half-turned to see Maggie hug Duncan, Kate looking on stoically.

"She doesn't know, does she?" James asked quietly.

"No. And I don't think we should tell her."

"She's not stupid."

Rick half-smiled. "I've known her a long time. I figured that out some time back."

"She's going to wonder."

"Wondering isn't the same as knowing."

James turned his cobalt blue gaze on the author. "It amazes me that the two of you are so close."

"Like I said, Maggie's special. She knew me before."

"Before?"

"The fame. The success. It makes a difference."

"You mean she's not out for what she can get."

"Yeah. Plus she's successful in her own right. We kind've grew up together."

"You?"

"Okay – Maggie grew up, I … prevaricated."

"I know. I've read your books."

This time he smiled wider. "I'm surprised."

"Maggie insisted."

"Good for Mags." There was an awkward pause, elongated as they watched the funeral party finally leave the cemetery, the cars moving in slow procession away from the grave. "You know, I'm going to ..." Rick gestured towards the others.

James nodded. "Tell Maggie I'll be waiting for her."

"Okay."

Rick wandered back up the slope, knowing the other man was still staring at him, feeling the twin blue lasers drilling into his back, and he wondered if they'd ever be friends. Maybe with Maggie as a buffer.

The woman in question looked up at his approach. "Rick, I was just telling them about Howard."

"Howard? Oh, Harrison?"

"Mmn. It's sad, don't you think?"

"What is?"

She looked surprised, then realisation hit. "Oh, no, of course, I haven't told you."

He stamped on the tiny flare of jealousy of feeling out of the loop, and sat down next to her on the bench. "Told me what?"

"That he's sick."

"Well, we knew that. Accusing you of plagiarism wasn't exactly the sign of a well mind."

"No, I mean really sick. Hospital sick." Her face took on an unhappy cast. "I met with him yesterday, just him and me, no lawyers. I told him what Kate had found, and he ... he started to cry."

"Cry?"

"Apparently he needs a lot of expensive treatment, and he doesn't have insurance. The only way he was going to be able to pay for it was ..." She stopped.

"By making a fraudulent claim," Kate filled in quietly.

"Yes. He had the idea that the publishers would pay him off rather than have it dragged through the courts." Maggie stared down at her hands. "He was right, too. They would have. Despite me being innocent."

Rick put his hand on hers and squeezed. "But he's dropping it now?"

"Oh, yes," she said, lifting her head. "He sort of folded when I told him what we knew."

"I could still arrest him, if you want to swear out a formal complaint," Kate put in.

"No, no," Maggie said quickly. "That won't help anything."

Rick sighed. "You're too good a person, Mags."

She coloured slightly. "No. Just ... human."

"I would have dealt with it for you," Duncan said.

"No." This time Maggie's voice was just a little too loud, and Rick wondered whether she actually knew a lot more about the old man's activities than she'd let on. "No," she repeated, quieter. "Thank you. But I'm ... working on it."

"Working on it?" Kate asked. "How?"

"I spoke to my agent. She's looking into a book deal for him."

Rick couldn't believe it. "Mags, he lied! He tried to get money by deception, was fully prepared to drag your name through the mud ... and you're helping him?"

"It's got nothing to do with it," Maggie insisted. "I just suggested maybe he should try writing a book about his experiences with his illness, how he couldn't get the treatment he needed, about ..." She stopped and glared at him. "Everyone deserves a break, Rick."

He couldn't help it. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Like I said, you're too good a person, Maggie Maguire."

This time the blush was deeper.

Kate stirred, watching a familiar car making its way down the narrow cemetery road towards them. "They're here," she said, moving forward and looking down at Duncan. "Time to go."

* * *

Rick stood with Maggie as they watched Kate assist Duncan into the back of the car, Ryan in the driver's seat, Esposito keeping a wary eye out.

"It's over," he said softly.

"Yes," she murmured.

"Are you coming back to the loft?" he asked.

A slightly guilty look crossed swiftly over her face, reminding him of Alexis somehow when she was five, having broken his favourite mug and being scared to tell him but admitting to it all the same.

"Uh ... no." Maggie carried on quickly, "James and I ... he's asked if I want to stay."

"With him."

"Yes."

"In his apartment."

"Right."

"In his bed?"

Now the guilt turned to something else. "Well ..."

He held up a hand. "I don't want to know." A bird suddenly sang high overhead, distracting him for a moment, even as Ryan expertly turned the car and headed out of the cemetery, then he asked, "Is this what you want?"

She sighed. "What I want and what I can have are two different things."

The guilt must have been catching. "Sorry."

"Don't be." She laughed, the sound making the workmen filling in the grave of Angelo Viducci turn and stare at her in disapproval. "Please, don't be. I should have said yes to you when you asked, I didn't, and time's moved on." She glanced towards where Kate was standing talking to James. "And it's time I did too."

"He's a good man." But he couldn't keep the grudging note out of his voice.

"Yes. Yes, he is." She surprised him by hugging him. "And so are you."

His arms came up and held her close, breathing in a tantalising fragrance of citrus and summer. "No, I'm not. I'm a mean old man."

"Right."

"Are you still going to wake me up in the middle of the night, calling me to tell me your troubles?"

"Hell, yes."

"And drop by unexpectedly when I have female company?"

"That was once. Okay, twice."

"And?"

"And yes."

"And be there when I need a shoulder to cry on?"

She looked up into his familiar blue eyes. "I haven't turned you away yet, have I?"

"No. No, you haven't." His embrace tightened. "You're my best friend, Mags. I don't want to lose you."

"That will never happen," she said, her voice muffled. "Unless you stop me breathing altogether."

He chuckled, feeling her laugh in response against him, then let her go. "Sorry." He looked into her green eyes, so familiar and safe. "You're my best friend. My oldest friend. No matter what happens, we'll always have –"

"Paris?" She grinned. "Rick, you're not Humphrey Bogart, this isn't Casablanca, and I'm sure as hell not Ingrid Bergman."

"I don't know. I see a resemblance ..."

"Rick." She shook her head in amused resignation and stepped back, breaking the connection once and for all. "And you should tell her."

"Tell who what?"

"Kate."

"I don't understand." He managed to look confused, and wondered if his mother's acting talents had finally rubbed off on him.

"Yes, you do." As Kate approached, Maggie dropped her voice and leaned in towards him. "Tell her, Rick. Or she'll find someone else and you'll lose her. You don't want to be as stupid as I was, do you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he assured her.

"Fine." She straightened up. "You know the saying ... there's no fool like an old fool."

He narrowed his eyes. "Mags, I –"

She didn't let him finish. "Kate. All sorted?"

Kate nodded. "Yes. They're taking him to Central Booking."

"What's he going to be charged with?" Rick asked, grateful for the change of subject.

"Accessory to murder, assaulting a police officer, resisting arrest ..."

"He saved my life," Rick pointed out.

"And I'll tell the judge exactly that," Kate said. She exhaled heavily and shook her head. "He can afford a good lawyer, Castle. In fact, I imagine one's waiting for him right now." She glanced at Maggie. "Right?"

The author nodded. "Thomas McCaverty."

Rick's eyebrows raised a little. "He's good. Mega-expensive."

"What else does he have to spend his money on?" Maggie asked in turn. "He's an old man, no children ... who's he going to leave it to when he's gone?"

"You?"

Maggie smiled. "I doubt it. Probably some cat's home."

"He may not get to keep it," Kate put in. "If the ruling comes down that his wealth is due to any kind of illegal dealings it might get confiscated."

Maggie barked a laugh. "Good luck proving that."

"Mmn."

She held out her hands, wrists slightly extended. "So, do I need a lawyer right now too?"

Kate studied her, the spiky black hair, green eyes glowing slightly in the spring sunshine, and a very slight smirk she recognised all too well on her lips. "As it happens, no. You heard him, he was very clear – he turned up at James' apartment this morning, and you persuaded him to hand himself over."

Maggie dropped her hands. "That was nice of him."

"It's not what happened?"

"I think it was maybe more a case of finding himself with nowhere else to go." Maggie scratched her cheek, a habit she looked like she was picking up from James, and said ruefully, "He didn't expect to be alive this morning."

"Alive?" Rick interjected.

Maggie glanced towards where the funeral cortege had disappeared, then towards Angelo's grave. They were alone in the cemetery now, apart from James standing next to his car, and a gardener in the distance, tidying a plot. "He went to apologise to Vito and Ariadne."

"Ah." Rick nodded slowly. "And he thought Vito would kill him for Angelo's death. Except Duncan didn't do it."

"It's all about saving face," Maggie added. "But I think Ariadne had a lot to do with it."

"Vito not ordering the hit?"

"Not ... yet."

A chill breeze blew across the cemetery, touching them briefly before moving on.

"Are you suggesting –"

"I'm only telling you what Duncan thought," Maggie pointed out.

"Just what relationship is he to you anyway?" Kate asked.

The older woman shrugged. "Something distant, on my mother's side. Third or fourth cousin, a few times removed. He was there for my mom when she ..." Maggie stopped. "Anyway, that's not the point."

"Isn't it?"

"Kate, Duncan's an old man. With his lawyer, he'll be out on bail in a few hours, and the court case will get tied up in red tape for years," Rick said quietly. "You really think he's going to live long enough for you to put him in jail?"

"I can only hope."

Maggie grinned, pushing away all the bad thoughts. "Anyway, I have to go. James will be wanting to get back to work."

"On the treasure?" Kate asked.

"Mmn." She laughed. "He's like a kid in a sweetshop, and he's filling his pockets."

Kate shook her head. "If I didn't know you're a writer I'd be able to guess."

"I think I'll take that as a compliment."

"Good idea."

"Well, thanks for all your help," Maggie said, a trifle awkwardly. "Maybe we can have lunch sometime. Catch up."

"I'd like that."

"Do I get invited?" Rick asked.

"No," Maggie said firmly. "Who do you think we intend to talk about?"

"Ouch." He looked pained, and Maggie laughed as she hugged him.

"Got to go." She waved and hurried back to the car, James opening the door for her so she could climb into the passenger seat.

He lifted a hand, and James acknowledged with a wave of his own as he closed the car door.

Rick felt the familiar ache of jealousy, but this time he accepted it. He'd always feel like that, he realised, at least where Maggie was concerned. She'd seen him through the good times and the bad, the worse and the indescribably better. She'd encouraged, argued, and flatly told him to get off his backside and back in front of that blank notebook, sometimes even standing over him to make sure he wrote.

Except the truth was, things would change, just as they'd done when he got married. Both times. Maggie had stood back, let him get on with it, only giving advice when he asked. Then when it was over she hardly ever said _I told you so_. Well, hardly ever.

The car pulled away, heading out of the cemetery, but his thoughts were still on Maggie.

He'd always likened their relationship to a Newton's Cradle, one of those old executive toys made of ball bearings suspended in a row. Occasionally someone pulled one or the other loose, and when they let go maybe they banged heads a few times, but they always ended up back together. Friends. And it wasn't a friendship he ever wanted to end. Although what would happen if he and Kate ever –

"Penny for them."

He turned his head to look at Kate. "Nothing."

"No? You looked very pensive for 'nothing'."

"I was just thinking."

"You know that's not good for you."

"I'm trying to kick the habit."

"Kick harder."

Rick looked around for something to ... ah, yes. "Dortland-Beauvoire. That's a name and a half, isn't it?" he said, pointing down at a stone. "Hyphenated, even."

"There's one over there with the name _Castle_ on it."

"Not me."

"No. But not for lack of trying." She shook her head. "Coming in after me with a sword. A _sword_."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Trying to face down a gun with a sword is _never_ a good idea."

"Hey, I thought I was being chivalrous."

"You could have ended up dead."

"I didn't."

"The day's young."

He grinned. "You know, I've been doing some research."

So he didn't want to talk about it, which was fine by her. She'd seen the slightly wistful look on his face as Maggie left, but until he was ready, she wouldn't push. It didn't stop her sighing for effect, though. "Do I really want to hear this?"

"Yes."

"Why do I doubt it?"

"Because you know me?"

Kate had to laugh. Just occasionally Rick showed signs of surprising insight regarding their relationship, while other times he was as dense as concrete. "Go on, then," she said, putting as much resignation into her voice as possible. "Bore me."

He ignored her pretence, and his enthusiasm started to bubble. "Well, James said the Rokeby Medusa wasn't part of the recovered haul."

"I noticed."

"You did?"

"I checked the inventory."

"Really." He was smirking.

It clicked. "We're not chasing it, Castle."

"I wasn't suggesting it. Well, not quite," he added, honesty radiating from every pore.

"It might not have been there at all." Kate was playing devil's advocate, just for the sake of it.

"We have the pictures."

"Blurred, indistinct ..."

"James is sure. So's Maggie."

"Maybe the water got in, and it disintegrated when Stanford and Osaki tried to unwrap it."

"That would be a crime."

"It all is."

"More likely it was part of the last haul and our dead friend over there took it." Rick waved her objections away. "Anyway, wherever it is, I imagine it's untouchable."

"If it still survives it's in a private vault in Switzerland somewhere," Kate said firmly, starting back towards her car. "And my jurisdiction doesn't reach quite that far."

He hurried to keep up. "Once a cop, always a cop ..."

"And once a night is enough."

He stared at her, his eyes wide, his jaw dropped. "Kate."

"Sorry," she said ruefully. "I have no idea where that came from."

"It's all my fault," he admitted, but didn't exactly sound that sorry. "I've been a bad influence on you."

"I'm not going to disagree."

"I shall throw myself in this open grave and you can cover me with earth."

"Don't tempt me."

He grinned. "On the other hand, don't. I've got a lot of living to do." The memory of that gun swinging in his direction, the barrel looking ready to swallow him down into oblivion made him pause, and it must have shown on his face.

"So what was this research then?" Kate asked, taking pity on him.

He grabbed hold with both hands. "Well, when this all started Alexis and I were at the Guggenheim."

"I remember."

"She wanted to go and see the da Vinci drawings."

"And I called you away."

"It doesn't matter. We're going next Saturday instead." He flashed her a warm smile. "You should come with us." Not waiting for an answer, he went on quickly, "Anyway, something stirred in the back of my mind."

"I'd see a doctor about that, if I were you."

Again ignoring her comment, he said, "So I googled."

"I rest my case."

"Ever heard of the Medici Chronicles?"

"Should I?"

They reached the car and he leaned on the top, his hands clasped.

"It's supposed to have been written by one of the minor members of the family, and lists a number of his works that have never surfaced in polite society. And the clues are supposed to be hidden in the drawings."

"Clues?"

"To the lost da Vinci paintings!" He grinned. "Imagine it, Kate, the original sketches for the Mona Lisa, maybe even the one where he got the smile right. All there, just waiting for us."

"Castle."

"What?"

She took a deep breath and shook her head, her eyes rolling. "Just ... get in the car."

* * *

**A.N: **It's been a long, hard (but mostly enjoyable) slog – over a year (admittedly with a full multi-chapter story in the middle: _Summer_ _Heat_ if you're interested in going back and reading it) from start to finish – but now it's done. I'd like to thank those of you who took the time out and commented – you're the greatest. And to those who merely lurked – I hope you enjoyed it. Not sure if I'll do another Castle any time soon, at least not like this. I know we authors shouldn't be interested in the number of reviews we get, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't matter. And there's a lot of fluffy fluff with fluff on the side that gets a lot more than a case story like mine, so maybe that's what folks want to read. The trouble is, Castle is inside my head, and my Muse – whilst dictating terms and demanding throw cushions – will probably insist on me putting pen to paper again soon. And there are so many ideas out there ...


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